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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555269">The Distance Between Us</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevestrom/pseuds/maevestrom'>maevestrom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Quarantine Blues [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, COVID-19, Chatting &amp; Messaging, Coping, F/F, Friendship/Love, Get-Togethers, Isolation, Leaving Home, Lesbian Character, Loneliness, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Other, Religion, Romance, Romantic Friendship, how to be a big fucking gay during the end of the world, or as therapists call it, stuck at home, this is all really cheesy and on the nose, yep</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:48:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555269</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevestrom/pseuds/maevestrom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole world stopped working and now Hilda wishes she had just confessed when she had the chance. Everything is so crazy and up in the air, but all that matters right now is one blue-haired angel who doesn't think she deserves how badly Hilda misses her.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Dorothea Arnault/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Linhardt von Hevring &amp; Bernadetta von Varley, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Quarantine Blues [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725118</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>77</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>God this is just... one, give me a break. I am enjoying writing this and enjoying writing something during all of this is a godsend. The second thing is that this is a fandom I am sort of familiar with. I am too fucking poor to buy the game but I know a lot about its characters and hopefully, I pull it off well. I love them all, but *especially* Marianne. Like, maybe I was just projecting in the first place but it is hard not to read some of this without being like "oh mood Hilda."</p><p>Hopefully, this goes well and I amass a follower or two.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The whole world stopped working and now Hilda wishes she had just confessed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wouldn't have been successful, probably. It was crazy to think that it would. Hilda isn't subtle about how much she adores Marianne, and she isn't shy to herself about how much she stands out compared to everyone else the perpetually blue girl knows. Their loss to not be able to see such a kind, gentle, precious, ornate woman for the beauty somehow both fragile and unbreakable at once, a porcelain doll with a beating heart. Hilda's a bit (a lot) of a lazy girl, so it's no surprise that she can entertain herself just by lying around and watching people… but Marianne is so captivating that Hilda can honestly spend hours just watching her </span>
  <em>
    <span>be </span>
  </em>
  <span>and be totally content. She probably would if Marianne weren't so skittish that staring at her, no matter the reason, would unnerve her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>unnerve </span>
  </em>
  <span>would be exactly what a confession would do, so Hilda has kept quiet. Marianne doesn't remotely love herself and the way she looks away shyly when Hilda compliments her or offers to help her with a task she plans to do seems to say that she doesn't think Hilda should either. Though at least her eyes never bear shame anymore when Hilda does. They've never borne surprise, even though when Hilda tells Claude what she did with Marianne on any particular day he can't stop his eyebrows from nearly flying off of his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(And he tries. Goddess, he tries.)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>friends</span>
  <em>
    <span>, right? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He always asks, and Hilda just groans noncommittally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne might mean to communicate nonverbally but Hilda doesn't see the point. Unlike Bernadetta, practically a ghost who lives with her, Claude, and Dorothea, Marianne does express quiet and tender disbelief that Hilda cares so much like she wants to warn her away, but she's lately punctuated them with thanks, so Hilda supposes that's progress. And hey, progress is good. Hilda will take the steps needed of her to ease Marianne into a place where she can accept the honesty of Hilda's love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she'll take as long as she needs to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then everything happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From first reports that she brushed off (Marianne worried over them but she worries over everything), the stories of people overpreparing and panicking that Hilda brushed off with a sarcastic barb that Marianne would giggle at guiltily, to hearing rumors of things like </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay-at-home </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>quarantine </span>
  </em>
  <span>and other words that didn't seem right for a situation she took so lightly, to hearing Marianne on the other end of the phone just listlessly agreeing to a voice Hilda could feel but not hear, a sickly hum in her bone marrow that told her to </span>
  <em>
    <span>prepare to suffer. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And now here she is at home, hundreds of miles away from her. She insisted that she could take Marianne in, but Marianne rightfully pointed out that she had three roommates. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That just means there's room for one more, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda argued, and Marianne forced a giggle, but obviously it didn’t work. So Marianne went back to her hometown hundreds of miles away from Hilda which, on top of isolation dictating they not see each other due to heinous and frankly homophobic social distancing laws, makes a tense and sludgy stew in Hilda's tummy knowing that her best friend isn't even a presence in the city that she could tangibly feel the spirit of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s pathetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This should be easy enough for Hilda. She literally has an excuse to stay inside and do nothing. That’s what she’s good at. The outside world… well, if she thinks about it too long it’ll flood her with anxiety. Maybe it would be good to focus on the news but maybe it’ll just make others think she’s a good person while she freaks the fuck out inside, and she likes relatively sane Hilda more than good citizen Hilda. So, really, all she has to do is stay indoors- with her roommates, no less!- and wait this whole thing out, then see how bad the damage is when it’s all over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except she can’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because all she can do is think about Marianne.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>----------</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something’s off with all four of them- even with the generally affable and unaffected Claude, who keeps looking down at any one of his myriad of electronic devices and mirthlessly humming. That’s just how Claude is; he rarely shows it, but Hilda knows he’s got an unreal amount of empathy for the broad concept of humanity, which is kind of annoying because he’s utterly unattuned to individual feelings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like when Hilda tries to say that it’s not gonna be as bad as they’re afraid it is (as if to convince herself) and he looks up from his phone on the couch and says </span>
  <em>
    <span>I dunno, Kitten </span>
  </em>
  <span>(Claude is the only one allowed to call her that) </span>
  <em>
    <span>because they’re saying about a quarter-million could die around the world even if we do everything right and we damn sure aren’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then he goes into more statistics and Dorothea has to tell him </span>
  <em>
    <span>you aren’t helping anything, Cal, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and thank God Bernadetta doesn’t ever leave her room. Maybe that’s because of everything or maybe just because Claude doesn’t stop regularly reciting the proof of how bad the world is, which, thanks for that, Hilda definitely wanted to spend the day worrying about Marianne dying and Hilda never knowing about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea is the first to notice what’s off with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes sense, Hilda supposes. Dorothea’s already got a long-distance girlfriend in Petra, who has visited a few times but lives across a few borders. She's not the best at English but she is so sweet and familiar to Hilda in the maybe ten lines they've shared over two years that Hilda gets why Dorothea, so full of love and eager to share it, loves Petra more than life itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And why Dorothea misses her too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda was always a hedonist. A lazy hedonist, but she's never really cared for subtlety over satisfaction. So if she wants to kneel by the radiator and stare out the window sullenly while it rains and miss the fuck out of Marianne and the outdoors she damn well will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea notices. <em>Think you can still go outside</em>, she muses. <em>Not that I'd imagine you'd </em></span>
  <span>want </span>
  <em>
    <span>to go out there.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda scoffs, but she can't help a bemused smile. <em>I'm not even sure I have a rain jacket.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea puts a finger to her chin. <em>Huh, you know I can loan you one.</em> Kneeling next to Hilda: <em>It’ll probably be big on you, but better too big than too small.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda huffs. <em>I’m not </em></span>
  <span>that </span>
  <em>
    <span>small.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea giggles, wrapping her arms around Hilda’s waist. <em>Of course not, Hildie</em>. Dorothea has been pretty handsy lately- it was actually encouraged by Petra, already from a culture where having multiple partners was a norm and not a transgression- but as much as Hilda wants to thank Petra for making sure she doesn’t forget what cuddles and head kisses feel like, she’s so very much not in the mood. But she also feels bad that she’s not in the mood. It’s not Dorothea’s fault that Hilda’s body slacks under Dorothea’s arms like a sack of rotted potatoes and she lets out a textbook longing sigh at it, like maybe if she closes her eyes she can imagine it’s Marianne cuddling her even though Marianne isn’t a cuddler and, wow, Hilda’s feeling extra-pathetic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when Dorothea notices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her breath hot and inquisitive on Hilda’s ear: <em>Missing anyone, Hildie?</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hildie chuckles. <em>Perceptive.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea hums sympathetically. The <em>me-too</em> never has to be said. It’s implied. She and Petra talk half of any given day away, possibly three quarters now that they’re all locked down, but Dorothea still misses her. It just radiates off of her, just like all of the love in her heart spills out of her body; her mouth, her arms, her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea rests her chin on Hilda’s shoulder, and Hilda rests hers on her wrists on the windowsill. Both of them look out of the rainy window. Their apartment is on the second floor, but it’s not much of a view. Just power lines and gray clouds and a torn-up road with potholes that construction finally started to fix until they abandoned it, leaving it still blocked by white and orange painted wooden fencing. It’s mundane, but it will be the best thing that Hilda looks at unless she actually goes on a walk, which might happen if she gets bored and restless enough and, hell, she’d take it if she meant she went a few minutes without missing-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mari, right? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The way Hilda’s head jerks up at the mention of her nickname would alert the singer even if Hilda didn’t accidentally knock their heads together. Dorothea flinches and seethes, but troops through with a pained <em>Yeah. Thought so.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>I mean, who else?</em> Hilda forces a laugh. God, she sounds bitter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>You really love that girl</em>, Dorothea assures her. <em>And I’m sure she misses you too.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not the way I’m missing her, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda thinks but thankfully doesn’t say. Instead, she says <em>Thanks, it’s just…</em> and proceeds to sigh again. Dorothea’s arms feel comforting in the hug she’s got little ol’ Hildie wrapped in and she can hear her breath steady in her ear. Dorothea is very nice and very soft so she’s very cuddly… but all it reminds Hilda of is how much Dorothea isn’t the girl on her mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda tries to breathe steadily. To think back. A few months before Marianne had to leave, before any of this was even thought of, she and all of the partners of the others filed into their cramped little apartment for a dinner together. Petra was visiting, which Claude used as an impetus for a get-together of eight people that was ill-thought-out, messy, disorganized, and one of the loveliest nights of Hilda's very short life. Petra and Dorothea wouldn't stop kissing on each other and even though Hilda first told them to get a room, Marianne was smitten with the affection so blatantly that Hilda started to like it because it made Marianne so happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I could kiss you like that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda almost said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>deadass </span>
  </em>
  <span>almost blurted it out, but just leaned onto Marianne's shoulder and listened to Claude talk to his boyfriend about a DnD match they were both involved in. Claude was scheming up ways to make hell break loose, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but I'm only telling you, Dimitri, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he insisted as his kindly boyfriend with the world's worst blond haircut nodded along with a mixture of fear and interest. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where's Bernadetta? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne asked quietly, and Hilda almost didn't answer because Marianne was playing with her hair from their seat on the floor beneath the couch and Hilda was lost in the motion. But when Marianne asked again, which she never did before in her quest to make herself as small an inconvenience as possible, Hilda was impressed enough to wake up and say </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, she and Lin are in her room. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne hummed, a little disappointed, but the fact that Bernie left her room for more than five seconds to say hello to and talk with Marianne for a bit amazed Hilda. Even her partner is an introvert and the two spent most of the evening in her room, probably watching something before sleeping. (Hilda had retrieved plates from her room in the past only to see the two tangled up with each other in a sleepy cuddle pile of limbs and silk footie pajamas. It was a little goofy, but Marianne would cry from how much she would adore it if that were her.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the evening went on. Petra would regale Dorothea with tales of her schooling back home in Brigid, as eager to talk about her home nation as she was to exchange stark kisses with Dorothea. Claude escalated into an argument with the straight-laced Dimitri about what a bard could and could not do and how that would interfere with the campaign, but Dimitri kept laughing in affectionate exhaustion the more wound up Claude appeared. She could hear a low buzz from the crack beneath the door that was likely whatever Bernie was streaming for her and Lin, but when she listened closer it was definitely the sound of light snoring. Hilda was content just to listen- to the arguing, the storytelling, the kissing, the snoring, and Marianne breathing into her ear, chuckling softly, saying stuff to Hilda that she mumbled half-awake non-responses to.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there was something about that moment where Hilda felt that she belonged. This wasn't her place because she manipulated or performed her way into it. This was her with her favorite person doing what came naturally. There was just something about it all… that place, that occasion, those friends, that girl, that made Hilda think that this was what she was meant for. That this is where she belonged in life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She comes to, realizing that she fogged up the window with her hot breath. She sighs, the daydream collapsing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea notices. <em>Bad day, huh?</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda doesn’t respond because, yeah, it is, but she’s not about to let anyone know about it, even though it’s pretty damn evident in her </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>She hasn’t said anything to me in three days. No messages, no voice chats, no face time. Nothing. </em>Hilda knows that it's a little much to complain about a three-day absence, but if anyone won't ridicule her, it's the girl with a long-distance relationship.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>Oh, dear.</em> Dorothea sees her face and loosens her grip without letting go. <em>I’d imagine that it’s just…</em> She waves a hand haphazardly. <em>All of </em></span>
  <span>this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda huffs, blowing a few strands of her pink hair up. <em>Duh.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea chuckles sarcastically at Hilda’s brattiness. <em>Seriously. Petra tells me she’s having trouble keeping up with her friends. There’s a lot of emotion going on.</em> That just screws Hilda’s gut up even more because that means that Dorothea still talks to Petra. Dorothea still has a number one she can talk to. Hilda doesn’t, and even if she did, that just adds fuel to the fire that she isn’t Marianne’s number one. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks, Dorothea, I can’t tell you how badly I didn’t need that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she actually says something like that out loud, she says <em>I’m just gonna go lay down. You gonna be using the room any</em>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea sighs into her skin. <em>I might get my laptop out but I won’t bug you if I do.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda’s glad for that. The two share a room due to limited space and the last thing she wants is Dorothea and her girlfriend sweet-talking two feet away from Hilda wishing she was dead to the world. She shakes off Dorothea’s arms but offers her a polite half-smile as she walks to the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>Rest up, Hildie.</em> Dorothea’s nearly inaudible. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am working through this with pretty good haste. Maybe after this I will focus on the other characters in the story. <br/>Thank you for following as I work on/through this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Hilda collapses on the bed with a grand </span>
  <em>
    <span>thunk, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the old cheap hunk of junk begging her not to do it again via creaks and groans. God, Hilda went her whole life overburdened by responsibility and looking for ways to brush or pawn it off. Now this opportunity presents itself where Hilda is tasked to literally do nothing for as long as she wants and that'll help protect </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but she's so restless and agitated and anxious that she can't actually relax. It's a classic monkey paw wish, and "I wish it was productive and accepted to not do anything" is </span>
  <em>
    <span>totally </span>
  </em>
  <span>the type of thing Hilda would wish for. Except, oops, she kind of brought on the end of the fucking world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that's no good because there's at least one person in the world she's scared for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne… it's not that she's not capable. Hilda probably thinks Marianne is more capable than she herself does. In the years that she's known Marianne, she's the definition of grace under fire. Grace in general, but grace under fire certainly. When Hilda burnt her hand in Marianne's kitchen (why in the hell did she think she could cook?) Marianne didn't scream or freak out like Hilda was. She treated it with expert care until they got to the hospital. Bernie surely would have fainted if that was her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this is different. Marianne’s staying with her homophobic parents because she can’t financially sustain rent in these times and her landlord didn’t suspend rent because landlords should all get the guillotine. She's normally an equestrian, but the horses she trains and performs with are miles away from her and horse shows were clearly deemed nonessential. Her parents live in a little house in the suburbs a long way away so it's not like she could have stuffed Dorte in their living room. She's worried about the damn horse not being fed or treated right and has no way to confirm that the caretaker on Dorte's property is taking care of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda won’t lie, she’d be jealous of a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>horse </span>
  </em>
  <span>if Marianne didn’t tell her already </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m thinking about you all the time </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I truly hope that you are okay </span>
  </em>
  <span>and other things that Marianne doesn’t usually say to people unless they’re close to her. Hilda has seen her at get-togethers with other people. Hell, even at the last one with the others in the apartment she was the definition of austere formality until she was around Hilda and relaxed, said things like </span>
  <em>
    <span>how sweet of you </span>
  </em>
  <span>when Hilda took their dishes into the kitchen and </span>
  <em>
    <span>how like you to think of me </span>
  </em>
  <span>because Hilda got Marianne’s favorite pastry as dessert for everyone (cherry danishes). And she actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiled! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne never smiles unless she’s around Dorte or around Hilda. And knowing Marianne, Hilda is absolutely content with being on the same level as her horse.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just… Marianne is alone, without the only two things in the world that seem to cheer her up. Hilda cannot deny that she is a little concerned about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially knowing Marianne.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure, she's scared for her family, but she's sure they're okay. Holst would probably beat the illness out of him. On a lesser level, she's worried for her roommates but they're behaving and, hell, Bernie leaves her room just to get food and use the bathroom and that's it. Dimitri seems like an avid rule follower and hopefully, he does better with Claude's blunt doom and gloom. Petra, she's not completely confident in but hopefully, Dorothea will talk down any plans she might have. Hopefully, Linhardt will hibernate through this entire thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone will probably be fine, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda tries to assure herself as she burrows into her pillow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And that includes Marianne.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda just hates not knowing for certain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the day before the lockdown is set to begin. Hilda is alone with Marianne in her apartment, which is nearly bare to the world. She’s got her phone plugged into a charger on the wall and her arms crossed. Marianne, still standing, looks over the suitcase coming with her in the car tomorrow. She’s got an inflatable mattress in her room to sleep on for the night but Hilda doubts that she is gonna be sleeping. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Think everything’s in the U-Haul,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she confirms, voice soft as ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is it gonna be safe?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Should be. Mother and Father have a storage shed next to their home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda winces. She only calls her own parents </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mother and Father </span>
  </em>
  <span>when she's mad at them. And usually, it's with venom and spite, not the absolute nothing that Marianne always says it with. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I really hate that you have to stay with </span>
  </em>
  <span>them. Hilda huffs and folds her arms. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like, no offense, but they're assholes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne smiles sadly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm flattered that you're worried about me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course, I am, sweetie. They don't accept you at all. They'll probably take you to church and try to turn you into the perfect straight housewife like Bernie's dad did.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne just shakes her head. With softness even softer than usual: </span>
  <em>
    <span>It won't be as bad as she had it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she promises. She's the only one Hilda has told about Bernie, and she knows Marianne has followed her request and kept it a secret. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Besides, I know who I am. At least… I think so.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope so. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne finally slumps on the ground to sit next to Hilda, who finally sets her phone down. Not like she was using it anyways. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What do you mean?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda starts to blush but hopes her casual shrug negates it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I mean… you were working on that whole sense of self thing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For one, they can’t actually take me to church. We’ll be locked up.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh yeah. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sarcastically: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I almost forgot. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne snorts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That aside, I'll be able to video chat with my therapist, so… </span>
  </em>
  <span>She looks off into the distance and doesn't finish her thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I just hope they don't eavesdrop and hear any of that awful gay shit from their poor misguided daughter. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Her tone turns mocking and she wants to spit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne gets a deviant glint in her eye. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I may have scheduled a walk every week over the appointment. A walk to a neat little hideout. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda gasps. Clapping giddily: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Girl. You didn't. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She giggles a little. God, Hilda would sell her soul just to have the sound recorded. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I should be a little concerned that I've picked up a few scheming habits the more time I've spent with you, but… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, unlike me and goddamn Claude, you actually are putting them to good use. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne takes her hand. Her skin is soft even after all the packing work they did. Hilda knows she has to feel like a crocodile herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you, Hilda. For all your help, and for your words. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda just nods, stunned that Marianne thanked her directly rather than expressing things that imply that Hilda shouldn't care so much. When she thinks about it, words fail her. Nothing Hilda can think to say makes sense or isn't a stupid question. She wants to ask if Marianne is gonna be okay with this but of course, she isn't. This isn't her first choice. This isn't even her tenth choice. It's just the best that Marianne has right now. Her whole life seems to be going to shit and Hilda can't do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it. Hilda barely does shit unless it's to help Marianne but she can't get Marianne out of this mess. The one thing Hilda should be good for, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn't, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and- </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne squeezes her hand hard enough to bring Hilda into reality. She's gotten more touchy lately over time. Just another sign of personal growth.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don't cry, okay? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm crying? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda sniffles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Goddamnit, I am. Sorry, Marianne. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hilda, you've been there for me when I cried so many times. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne reaches into her pocket and pulls out a travel packet of tissues. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Allergy season, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she explained when Hilda first asked, but her face has had too many subtle tear stains to sell it as the whole truth. Leave it to Marianne to act stronger than she is in times of crisis.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But, like… I'll be okay. I have no right to complain. I'll be at home. I'll be safe. I'll be covered. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda sighs, choking back more tears. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's just… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'll be fine, Hilda. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's just gonna be so hard for you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda whines. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wait, I shouldn't be adding to your stress. I just… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, Marianne moves her hand to her shoulder. Hilda meets her eyes with something akin to sorrow and fear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hilda, you shouldn't make yourself sick worrying about me. I… I can get through this. Everything I've learned, everything I have worked on… this is just a test, isn't it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda breathes. When Marianne puts it like that, things seem to logically make sense. Even though no one goes through the final exam halfway through learning the class. Even though Marianne's depression and self-loathing and the hurt she always seems to hold and the sadness latent in her eyes are the faults of the only people willing and able to take her in. Even though she's a lovely, kindhearted, beautiful gay woman that Hilda would literally die for before seeing them try to undo her progress, fix what they think are their mistakes without fixing the ones they actually made. Even though Hilda will not see her how she is for Goddess knows how long. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne gestures for Hilda to face her again. Hilda does, trying to take her in. Her faded blue hair, like linen drying in the sun, fixed in a messy bun contrasted by an impeccable braid crown. The slight smile on her face. The black scarf around her neck, the closed jean jacket over a navy skirt adorned with embroidered flowers… Hilda takes careful mental note of Marianne in this moment, the last time they'll see each other for a while, and she wonders if Marianne is doing the same thing. She seems so confident that this will be over soon… so why can't Hilda be?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne leans forward and, as if on a dare, kisses Hilda on the cheek. Like everything about Marianne, it is soft, a ghost of affection Hilda isn't sure even happened until Marianne gets up and says </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm gonna wash my hands. We're supposed to do that and all. I'll, uhm… </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she's only sure the kiss happened because Marianne never talks so quickly or so clearly flustered. She's gone before Hilda and her million questions can get to her, and knowing Marianne she'll probably act like this never happened because even now she evades her feelings, so Hilda just stares ahead, hand where Marianne kissed her, lighting up the room in lovely sunset colors with her blush. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They don't deserve you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe someday Hilda will believe that she does.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been about three days since Marianne messaged her again. Hilda still remembers the gist of it, but maybe there’s something in the exact words that will make her feel better than the pit in her gut the gist leaves her with every time she remembers. With a deep breath that turns into a sigh, she opens up the app to read it again. </p><p>
  <em> Hilda, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t want you to be alarmed if I don’t message for a few days. I’ve been in a very interesting headspace lately and want to leave this isolation in a better one. I’ll be all right. Just let me message you first, and don’t be alarmed at how long I take. I care deeply about you, and you are never far from my mind. There’s just a lot going on and I feel like I need to fix it myself. Sorry, I’m being so vague and I hope you aren’t too worried. I love you. -Marianne </em>
</p><p>That was Marianne, all right. The evasion of her feelings, the odd formality of it all, and the fact that it’s formatted as a letter. Hilda can’t let paranoia get the best of her even though it really wants to and it would be kind of goddamn valid for it to roam free. Gods, they didn’t get to her, did they? Not even in a “they’ve locked me in the dungeon and forced me to type this” way. She just doesn’t want Marianne’s parents to turn her against Hilda. And even if that didn’t happen (<em> it didn’t, it didn’t, it </em>didn’t, Hilda forces herself to acknowledge) they could still be emotionally hurting her without trying. Trying to change her. Compelling her to closet herself. Making her ashamed of herself.</p><p>It took so long for her to get this far. What if they change her back?</p><p>She remembered immediately wanting to spill all of that to Marianne in a take-charge way. Tell her that everything she’s heard makes her weary to let contact fall away with her. But why? Because <em> she’s </em> scared? Because <em> she </em> knows what’s best for Marianne despite not having seen her for about a month? Because <em> she </em>doesn’t trust Marianne to be okay?</p><p>No. She’s scared as hell. </p><p>That's her cross to bear.</p><p>
  <em> totally understand! really hope the best for u.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I mean DUH course I do  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> just dont be a stranger &amp; talk to me if u need help!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 💖💖💖😍😍🤩✌💫💖😘💓💖 </em>
</p><p>Marianne never replied, almost as if she saw through Hilda's forced positivity. She did heart react her last emoji-laden message (with a pale blue heart as usual) and Hilda really wishes she, at the very least, had actually said the words <em> I love you, </em>even if Marianne would have thought it to be platonic. </p><p>Hilda loves Marianne.</p><p>And that's why it is so goddamn hard to give her space. Cause there's always been a selfish element to Hilda taking care of Marianne how she has. She loves Marianne and wants her to be happy and satisfied with herself and her life- goddess, more than anything- but Marianne has such an aura about her that Hilda wants to spend all her time in, like an umbrella from the rainstorms of the world. </p><p>This is the biggest rainstorm Hilda has ever seen, but she'll face it unsheltered for Marianne. </p><p>
  <em> Please just be okay, baby. Please, please, please just be okay.  </em>
</p><p>Hilda drifts off to sleep. She's had the bad habit of only being able to get into a state of relaxation through fantasy. It shouldn't surprise her. Lots of people fantasize about their crushes. What bugs her is how sickeningly chaste they are. Like, with other people Hilda's liked before she doesn't mind fantasizing about them railing her into the mattress until she forgets her name. Like, oh well, it's <em> her </em>fantasy, and with a couple of people, it became a reality because it's usually easier for her to get sex than romance. </p><p>But with Marianne, Hilda has turned into a fucking geek and instead dozes off thinking of Marianne cuddling her, resting her head on Hilda's breast, remembering the times where Marianne has drifted onto her own shoulder, remembers and tries to gather the details of Marianne kissing her on the cheek. Marianne touches her like she expects to be an impermanent part of Hilda's life but Hilda doesn't think she'll ever lose her.</p><p>---</p><p>Hilda sleeps a lot in the next few days. Not continuously, but it may as well be. She feels like Linhardt, napping multiple times during the day and only coming out to sit on the couch for a while and eat food that she needs little effort to prepare. Claude generally watches the news while surfing on his phone. Dorothea tries to keep up with it but often shakes her head and walks out of the room when all the misery gets to be too much. She generally gets on her computer and talks to Petra in their room when Hilda is not in it, leaving her and Claude on her own. Hilda definitely gets being overwhelmed by stuff like death tolls and government mishandling. Once the death toll is announced as ten-thousand and climbing, Hilda shudders and takes the remote from Claude, who doesn’t budge. </p><p><em> We’re streaming something </em>, Hilda announces.</p><p>Claude crosses his legs with a chuckle. <em> As long as it ain’t Tiger King, I’m good. </em></p><p>Hilda rolls her eyes. <em> As if, Claude. I want to actually be </em> happy <em> for once. </em></p><p>Claude chuckles again under his breath. <em> There’s probably some rinky-dink fashion show we can half-tune into. </em></p><p>Hilda finds it. <em> That sounds so amazing that I can’t even comprehend it, bro. </em></p><p>The two sit next to each other, Claude’s jean-clad leg touching Hilda’s nearly bare one. Fuck, Hilda hasn’t gotten out of her pajama shorts and tank for ages. Claude looks at her and says <em> No offense, but you really need a shower.  </em></p><p>Hilda folds her arms. <em> First off, fuck you.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Duly noted.  </em>
</p><p><em> Second off, you’re right. </em> Claude looks triumphant. <em> But you know how it is lately.  </em></p><p>Claude nods solemnly. Then, before Hilda forgets who he is: <em> Just because it’s the apocalypse doesn’t mean you have to smell like ass.  </em></p><p><em> I don’t </em> actually <em> smell like ass, do I? </em></p><p>
  <em> Trust me, Hild, it is unmistakable.  </em>
</p><p>Hilda snorts. <em> Well, I guess if anyone should know, it would be you.  </em></p><p>Claude mirrors her snort, an impressed look on her face. <em> It’s fun to see you act like you wouldn’t know.  </em></p><p>
  <em> I’m not saying I wouldn’t, Claude. I’m just saying that you’d know best.  </em>
</p><p><em> Can’t deny that. </em>Then, Claude playfully twirls his hand around his nose and inhales sharply, eyes closed as if blissfully inspecting an aroma. Hilda cackles gracelessly, legs splayed on the empty coffee table. </p><p>The two are quiet for a few minutes. Hilda pays attention to the show she couldn’t tell anyone about five minutes after it airs just to give her brain some exercise. Claude keeps looking down at his phone, sighing, then looking at the TV with hazy half-interest. Hilda looks down at his phone and sees that he’s on a news site. Scoffing: <em> why do you do this to yourself, Claude? </em></p><p>Claude shrugs, but his eyes widen like prey seeing a predator. <em> I mean, this is the kind of shit the org would deal with when it’s together. </em> Oh yeah. Hilda almost forgets that Claude works for a financial justice group called the Golden Deer. <em> And the more I read about this and the… </em> Uncharacteristically, he balls his fists. <em> The </em> abysmal <em> way that those in charge are handling it, once the storm is over there’s a lot we gotta do.  </em></p><p>He slacks and sighs. Hilda places a hand on his knee. Apparently, this is getting to everyone because usually, Claude is never this tense. <em> Then again, it’s gonna be a mess. And, I dunno… there’s only so much the Deer can do.  </em></p><p>
  <em> If anyone can do it, hon, it’s you all.  </em>
</p><p>Claude sighs again. <em> Kitten, I really hope so. This is just gonna be a huge jump, I guess. Going from attending council meetings and helping the homeless to trying to fix the city after a health and financial disaster. One city in one state in one nation. </em> Shaking his head vigorously, as if to keep the sleep out of his eyes: <em> Fuck, that’s big.  </em></p><p>Hilda closes her eyes. She’d only been able to see this lockdown as a curse, her being locked up with her fears, the end of the world, and miles away from most of those she loves. Meanwhile, there’s Claude next to her, who sees this as a fucked-up break before he has to do some of the hardest work in his life. Hilda hates working, but she’ll do it- when she needs to do it. Claude doesn’t have to yet, but he’s already preparing for it. He’s already living there. </p><p>Hilda’s never seen Claude scared before, but if there’s ever a first time for anything, it would be around this time. </p><p>She puts a hand on his knee. <em> Claude, you’re worrying yourself too much.  </em></p><p><em> Maybe a little, </em>he says noncommittally. </p><p><em> Maybe a </em> lot, <em> dude. Trust me, this sucks but what it </em> is <em> is time. A time before you gotta deal with the bad, not time where you dread it. </em> Hilda shakes her head. What kind of motivational bullshit is this? <em> Look, dude, not only is it not healthy to obsess over how bad things are all the time, it’s bumming the fuck out of the rest of us. Maybe we shouldn’t not think of it but, like, living in that disaster sucks and enough things suck already, okay Claude?  </em></p><p>Something makes Claude's eyes widen, looking straight at Hilda. Hilda throws her hands up in the air, about to say something snarky and unnecessary, when she feels her fingertips brush her face and come back wet. Oh, goddamn it. <em> Fuck this, </em> she complains. <em> I think I've cried more in the last few weeks than I have in my life before.  </em></p><p>Claude sighs. <em> Hild, I mean, we're all feeling kind of fucked right now. </em> Hilda nods and wipes her eyes. <em> Don't touch your face, Hild.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Or what, the virus is gonna jump out from the couch and eat me? None of us have left our house in two weeks. I'm fine.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I'm pretty sure none of us are remotely fine. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You know what I mean.  </em>
</p><p>Claude looks at her, eyebrow cocked, and hands her a tissue. Hilda huffs and snatches it, blowing her nose so powerfully the tissue makes a trumpeting noise. <em> Okay, but don't let the fact that I snotted all over myself take away from my point. Now's the time to power up. Emotionally, spiritually, physically.  </em></p><p>
  <em> This is a hell of a time to try healthy practices, considering you're saying this admitting you haven't showered in days.  </em>
</p><p>Hilda throws her hands up. <em> Dude, will you shut the fuck up about me showering? </em> Claude doesn’t react to Hilda’s anger. He never does. <em> Like, I </em> know <em> I'm not doing a good job at following my own advice but that doesn't mean that you can't. Seriously, Claude, we've got a lot to worry about. Ease up on yourself a little bit and don't waste away and give up. </em></p><p>Claude's nose rankles at the idea of giving up. Claude doesn't give up. Hilda knows that. But that doesn't mean he's not giving in. He sets his phone down and looks at nothing in particular. </p><p><em> Okay, </em>he whispers eventually.</p><p>Then he shuts the TV off. Hilda blinks twice and decides she doesn't really miss it. <em> Huh.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Seriously, Hilda, go shower. I can feel pajamas sticking to my skin from here.  </em>
</p><p>Hilda looks at him with a very emotionally confused look on her face. Not being able to truly decipher what either party is thinking seems to be how every conversation with him ends.</p><p>Silly bastard. She kind of loves him.</p><p><em> Okay, </em> she says, walking off to her and Dorothea's room. <em> But if I come out and you're on your phone I'll bash your pretty little face in with it. </em></p><p>Claude chuckles. <em> Sure, sure, kitten.  </em></p><p>Hilda rolls her eyes as a goodbye, walking into her room. Dorothea's on the bed, gabbing at the laptop. She looks up at Hilda. <em> Hey, little lady.  </em></p><p>She hears Petra's voice, tinny and flat through the computer. <em> Oh! Hello, Hilda!  </em></p><p><em> I'm just getting some clothes, </em> Hilda explains offhandedly. <em> Don't start cybering until I get done with my shower.  </em></p><p>Dorothea smirks as if she isn't blushing like mad. <em> I'll be sure not to, Hildie. Though I doubt it would be anything you haven't seen. We </em> are <em> roommates, after all.  </em></p><p>Hilda nods, grabbing the first shirt and skirt she sees. <em> Probably not, but the context would be radically different. </em> Picking some socks and underwear, she says <em> later.  </em></p><p><em> I am sorry, </em> she hears Petra ask Dorothea, <em> but what is 'cybering'? </em></p><p>
  <em> Oh, dear Goddess. </em>
</p><p>Hilda goes in to shower. It's uneventful, and she tries to keep Marianne out of her mind in case it starts to hurt her heart. As she washes down with the thoroughness that belies having nothing to do combined with the rushed pace of not trusting herself to be alone, she hears music play out of the television. It's loud enough for her to dance to even though it feels foreboding. She still sings <em> good luck, my friends, in time it ends </em>with it, enjoying how the shower acoustics make her voice sound worth listening to. </p><p>She finishes up, drying off and then wrapping her hair up with her towel. She doesn't bother with anything else, even returning to her room to lotion herself after she forgot to bring it to the bathroom. </p><p>She sees Claude reading out of a paperback. His phone is dutifully across the couch from him. The music is much louder out here; they'd be lucky not to get a noise complaint from the neighbors, but they'll deal with that later. She sits in between him and his phone and looks over his shoulder at his book.</p><p>It's a book she's never heard of detailing community organising practices. <em> Of course. </em></p><p>Claude looks up. <em> Can I help you? </em></p><p>Hilda shakes her head. <em> Just curious. </em></p><p>Claude smiles and turns away, leaving Hilda alone in her thoughts, the main one being <em> Well, everyone has to start somewhere. </em></p><p>She just wonders where she will start, and when.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Hilda finally gets a few supplies in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're not great because she's kind of broke, but it's not exactly friendship bracelet material. She almost forgot that she had a business after her little workroom she rented in an artisan group was shut down because she couldn't take all her supplies with her, and the hiatus was chafing at her. She was grateful for the little stack of chains, fake jewels, and baubles that she could make stuff with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, the quarantine should be over in a few weeks. Or maybe just everyone wants it to be. Maybe the government just really wants people to buy shit. Either way, </span>
  <em>
    <span>a few weeks out </span>
  </em>
  <span>seems like a realistic goal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, Dorothea isn't in the room that day, so Hilda is able to access the desk in the corner in the room without distraction. She can already see a good combination- a light gold chain and a set of sapphire-adjacent things all in a row. She loses herself in the grind of routine, gluing, prying, and assembling until she finishes making a decent little something something out of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs. It’s… nice, but it doesn’t feel right. It feels a little knockoff. Like a cheap version of the artisan jewelry she crafts. Which, of course, it is, the kit came from an online sale and not anything fancy like the materials locked up in her shop. She just wants to prove to herself that she can still do this, but it all feels hollow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’ll probably just save this for a friend. She’d feel like a con artist trying to actually sell it. Would Dorothea like it? Probably not. She’d appreciate it, maybe, but she can’t imagine her actually wearing it. Would Bernadetta even consider it for more than a second or just run into her room? And she knows Claude’s tastes way too well and that ain’t it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks at it again. The blue reminds her of… well, yeah. Her. Some days, Hilda finds it a little painful to think of her directly, but just summarizing Marianne as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Her </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Girl </span>
  </em>
  <span>feels almost too deifying to be comfortable with. She knows that the girl would hate that. Hilda has never been religious growing up like Marianne, but she knows that sometimes her mind can go places out of love that it feels too devout for it to go. She calls it love, but she isn’t sure if it’s that or obsession, because it’s been a week now since they last spoke and Hilda legitimately is gonna lose her mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She starts on another necklace to get her thoughts off of it. She isn’t sure what it looks like as she makes it, and when she’s finished… all she’ll say is that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks </span>
  </em>
  <span>like she wasn’t looking at it as she made it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s right about then that the door slowly creaks open. Only one person enters without knocking first, and she had to tell Dorothea to stop worrying and just open. Even then, she takes so long before finally opening it, looking at Hilda and saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey there, Hildie!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey babe. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda doesn’t look up from the desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea wanders over to the bed, stretching her legs as she lies down, one leg covering the other. Hilda steals a glance. Dorothea is the epitome of classically beautiful, not that anyone could tell her that. Even Petra couldn’t get away with pointing out the fact that Dorothea is objectively gorgeous and worth more than she thinks. She’s just glad that Dorothea is with Petra and not some scummy loser from the audience at the theater company she works with- or Goddess forbid, a theater member. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s also glad that she gets to share a bed with someone so voluptuous and cuddly, but that’s neither here nor there. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Making jewelry? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda blinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>At some point, I was, yeah. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea coos with interest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anything good?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda shrugs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Probably not. I’m just trying to get back in the swing of things. Besides, this material sucks. I just left all my good stuff at work. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea hums sadly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Trying to keep that muscle memory going, I guess. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mmhmm. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s quiet for around fifteen seconds. Hilda almost throws together a third one but decides not to blow through her materials while she is barely focused on it. She sets everything down, pushes out her desk chair, and marches over to the bed where she lies next to Dorothea. Instinctively, Dorothea wraps her arms around Hilda, stomach, gently beckoning her closer. With a satisfied sigh, Hilda obliges. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks, Hildie. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda hums in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two lie together, Dorothea burrowing her face into Hilda's neck, tangled in a massive patch of bubblegum hair. Hilda goes to brush her hair out of the way. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea instructs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I like it like this.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay. Weirdo. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda giggles just a little and places her hands on Dorothea’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes pass, Dorothea steadily breathing into Hilda's ear, Hilda tracing circles around each of Dorothea's knuckles. She has to hand it to her, she's especially cuddly today.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How are you doing lately, Hildie?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shush. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda frowns for a second, thankful Dorothea can't see her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I literally don't want to think about anything right now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea hums, concerned. So much is communicated by the noises she makes. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Let's just rest for a while. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea hums affirmatively. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I could use a nap.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda chuckles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We have all the time in the world for that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And so it goes. Hilda's happy to hear Dorothea's steady breathing settle into quiet snores, her air on Hilda's neck pushing her hair up for moments at a time. She smiles, focusing on the noise and the rhythm and letting it steal her consciousness in the waking world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's happy napping for the first time in ages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wakes up after Dorothea, letting her place a tiny kiss to the nape of her neck. She chuckles lowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Glad to see you're awake, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea muses. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I felt odd being all over you while you were asleep.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Girl, you're fine. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda waves her off before placing her hands back on Dorothea's, pressed a little harder into her stomach. Hilda's gut swirls a little, loving the pressure and who it's from but not sure how to take it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea notices how her muscles tense up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you sure? I can stop if you want. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda is about to tell her not to worry, but hell, she figures she should assess it. Thinking about it… she does love Dorothea. Platonically, but if Dorothea ever suggested dating, Hilda would probably be up for it. It's just… she still isn't sure how Marianne would feel, and Marianne feels a lot more important. A lot more... individual to Hilda. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet at the end of the day, </span>
  <em>
    <span>You're fine, Dora. Seriously.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea giggles and her voice sings even now. She places one more kiss on Hilda's neck, and Hilda lazily lifts Dorothea's hand to her lips, kissing softly and then holding it to her heart, which is surprisingly hammering.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So I'm guessing you already know?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Drawing a blank.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>About the little meet-up that Claude is planning?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda turns her head to meet Dorothea's emerald eyes, always glistening like they've been crying. Dorothea smiles softly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>So I'm guessing this is news to you? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda smirks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah. And that's fucking weird. When Claude has an idea he usually at a bare minimum has to brag about it to the entire household.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea snort-laughs, which Hilda honestly finds cuter than a giggle. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, you're really right. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Smug smile on her face, Hilda turns back around. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I've lived with Claude like ever since I could get out of my folks' place. Anyway, a get-together?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah. Claude figured a good way to get us a little destressed is if we all call up with our partners and just have a group chat together. Play some games, do some talking. Just not be so damn lonely, ya know? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda hmms, contemplative. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I kind of like that idea. And… it feels like I can't stop thinking about things. So I need the break. It's just… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Her words die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she can say to forget, Dorothea coos and pulls closer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Hildie dear, are you and Marianne still not talking?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She said to let her message first, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda explains too quickly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Which just leaves me with more questions than answers considering… </span>
  </em>
  <span>She starts to count the days since that message in her head and stops just as quickly before she both freaks herself out and feels pathetic, something Marianne has made her feel plenty of lately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea hmms. Hilda can feel it on her skin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hilda, I know that it might seem like a breach of protocol, but I genuinely do not think that she would mind if you just told her about the event. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You don’t think it's a problem? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda isn’t sure if she believes Dorothea, but having permission makes her stomach loosen from its chains. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think it should be. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>See, that’s a little different than it absolutely being okay. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, I can’t really perfectly predict everything, and I am not sure what Marianne is even thinking if I’m honest. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda bristles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She’s got stuff to work out. Besides, you know her parents. They’re fucking monsters. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She sighs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This might be a bad idea, Dora. She probably can’t make it anyways. I’d just be making her mad. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea notices how tense Hilda is, though that’s probably basic level observation. Either way, she places her hands on Hilda’s shoulders and lightly rubs. Hilda feels no less worried, but a lot less like she might punch a wall by reflex. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re really worked up about this whole thing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course I am. I love her. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea tuts sweetly, kissing Hilda on her shoulder. When her lips meet her skin, Hilda shudders, nearly about to cry. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s okay, Hildie, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she says in a way that indicates to Hilda that she knows what </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love her </span>
  </em>
  <span>means but isn’t gonna push it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda’s glad. She doesn’t know how she’d answer any questions. She barely knows anything at all about how to handle this except to love and hope for the best. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is such a horrid time, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea whispers, </span>
  <em>
    <span>to fall in love. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In her arms, Hilda can’t help but agree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Hilda a full day to invite Marianne. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude plans for the meetup to be on Friday, which, if Hilda is correct (all the days blend together), is in two days. She considers not telling Marianne at all just because talking to her now scares the dickens out of her, but she thinks of Claude, Dorothea, and Bernie all talking to their partners together and would rather drink bleach than be alone knowing she didn’t have to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes her an hour to polish and send a message. At first, it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>too long with </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>too many qualifications and apologies for bugging her, then she erases those and stuffs the extra space with little half-truths about how she’s doing fine (she’s not) and misses her (she does). After some time, she decides to erase those as well. Eventually, she gets it sanded down to this:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey Marianne! I know you’d rather wait for me to hear from you, but I don’t mean to disrupt you on anything. I just wanted to invite you to a little get-together Claude is doing over a web call. It’s gonna be him, me, Dorothea, Bernadetta (hopefully), Dimitri, Linhardt, and Petra. We'll hang out, play some games, and just… not be so alone. I know things in life won't make it easy, but you should consider it! It could be fun! 💖✌</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda finally sends it after counting to three. She isn't sure she breathes for a few seconds after, and even then it's very stifled and thin like her chest is backed up with air she cannot fully release. She sets her phone down on the desk and works on another necklace to distract herself. She finds a nice icy white jewel and a silver chain to attach it to. It's not much, but it's a start. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She successfully loses herself to her work when the phone vibrates. She initially doesn't want to look because she's liable to fall for false alarms hoping for her. She lasts a full minute before she gets frustrated and looks just so she can get back to her garbage necklace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, damn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda takes a deep breath. Her heart is gonna hammer out of her chest at this rate. Eventually, after another count of three, she reads it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'd be honored to make it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda blinks, then giggles. There's something about those six words that, even if they weren't confirming her attendance, feel so unmistakably Marianne that she could cry. Hell, she's clearing her throat and wiping her eyes because actually crying over this would embarrass her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's just glad to hear from Marianne. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Excellent! It's going to be in the evening. I'll let you know before it happens. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda sends it. After a short second of horror, she hastily adds </span>
  <em>
    <span>if u dont mind! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She works more on the necklace, fixating on the jewel. She wonders if she should put more on the surrounding chain or if she should let the minimalism speak for itself. Yet there's a difference between minimalism and laziness, right? Hilda is so lazy in general and she doesn't want to take the easy way out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another vibration. Hilda just gets it over with.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The situation being how it is I probably can't go on video or mic. But I will talk with you all. I miss your presence. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss yours too! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda doesn't even think before typing and sending that. It's just true. No, it's barely a fraction of the truth. If she was any more honest she'd scare Marianne away, so she leaves it, smacking her hand when it reaches for her phone to temper that message down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne doesn't message again. Hilda sort of expected that. Eventually, she reaches the point, for the first time in so long, that she doesn't really think of Marianne. She just… works, adding little baubles to the necklace that she plans on wearing to Friday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It'll be a nice touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It'll make her feel like she's trying again. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am literally planning the story based on "what would make me feel good" and the answer is apparently "some of my favorite 3H characters going on Discord and playing Jackbox"</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Friday comes around sooner than Hilda expects. She's too excited to sleep well, which is bizarre seeing as sleeping is almost all she's done over the quarantine at all. When she finally surrenders to waking up, she lies in Dorothea's arms until the other girl wakes up. She's the big spoon, as usual, face buried in Hilda's hair so deeply that it's no wonder she snores because Hilda isn't sure how she breathes. The whole time, Hilda contemplates what she'll do to get ready. Will she put on any makeup? Any fancy clothes? She doesn't want to look like a geek who thinks this is the biggest deal ever, even though it's certainly the biggest deal she's had in a long time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Dorothea does wake, coughing Hilda's hair out of her mouth. Hilda cringes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You're gonna hack up a pink hairball on your next call with Petra at this rate. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea snorts, blowing Hilda's hair. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She's used to it. Probably more used to it being burgundy, honestly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda giggles. She thinks of a dirty joke regarding hair in one's mouth, but not only would Dorothea not get flustered, but she'd also probably turn Hilda into a mess with her retort. Instead, she looks straight ahead to the closet they share, full to bursting with clothes that Hilda has not bothered with in ages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a thundering yawn, Dorothea’s eyes follow her own. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hmm. When you think about it, we own some nice stuff.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>should. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re a theater star. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea pushes her lightly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not a star. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda groans. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re not having this argument, Dorothea. When you get the leading role in one of the city’s most buzzed-about plays, you’re officially a theater star. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Name the first thing about that play. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda blinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, on one hand, you got me, but on the other do I look like the kind of bitch who knows about the theater scene?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>With a kiss on her nape: </span>
  <em>
    <span>No. But you’re just fine, Hildie. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda shudders. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Goddamn… </span>
  </em>
  <span>She closes her eyes, heart racing as her body bends under Dorothea’s control, subconscious but not against her will. Dorothea kisses her again, and Hilda grips the taller girl’s side. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re crazy. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>By now? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea pinches her ass. </span>
  <em>
    <span>At least a little. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Watch it, buster. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea giggles but backs off, even knowing Hilda is joking. <em>I just</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted to make sure you were awake, sweetie. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m more than awake, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she insists. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t stop thinking about tonight. It’s like it’s some big frickin’ event, even though it’s not. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bigger than anything we’ve done in ages. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Conceded. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The two fall quiet, looking again at the overflowing closet. Hilda is the first to ask it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Would it be stupid if-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hell no. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Really?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea chuckles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hell. No. We’re gonna look like queens tonight. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda gulps, but she’s shaking giddily under Dorothea’s touch. A part of her hates the idea of dressing up just for a video call, but she sees the clothes she hasn’t worn in ages, the jewelry she saves for nice evenings out, and the makeup she’s gonna forget how to apply at this rate. Maybe, she thinks, if she does go all out, she’ll feel a little more normal and not like the walking dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe, she thinks selfishly, she’ll stun the hell out of Marianne. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think we will, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she finally responds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We </span>
  </em>
  <span>will</span>
  <em>
    <span> look like queens. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So they do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It helps that both girls are fashionistas and okay with seeing each other in compromising positions because Dorothea </span>
  <em>
    <span>may </span>
  </em>
  <span>have needed to help Hilda put a bra on. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been a fuckin’ month since I wore one, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she protests. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t suddenly revert to being twelve. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea just chuckles knowingly and buckles it for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Come six in the evening, everything looks to be a go. Dorothea says that Hilda can join her on her computer camera but Hilda decides to use her own device, leaning a tablet on a stand at the kitchen table. She tightens the ice jewel necklace she finally finished that day, makeup sparse enough only to be concealing save for some bright pink eyeshadow that makes both eyes glow. She’s dressed in a black bodysuit tank and pale pink skirt. A corset would really tie the look together but this is not the time that Hilda is gonna sacrifice her breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s the first to join their base group, flipping the webcam on. She sees Claude looking back at her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, kitten. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She waves, then looks at him over in the living room, sprawled on the couch holding his cell phone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You seriously couldn’t have bothered with a shirt, bro?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude laughs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just consider yourself lucky I bothered with pants. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good grief, man. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda turns to see that Dorothea has logged in from her bedroom, lying on her stomach. Even from this angle, her sleeveless black dress looks remarkable- or it could just be her shoulders and her impeccable makeup job. Hilda can’t help but wolf-whistle, which makes Dorothea blush and say </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop it, honey.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You look gorgeous. Claude, doesn’t she look gorgeous?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my God, you two. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude grins. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like a lost saint. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You two are the worst. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea’s lost in blushes, head ducked into the blanket. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And Hilda, don’t you dare lose the plot that Claude has decided to show up to this meeting </span>
  </em>
  <span>shirtless. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not my fault you showed up dressed to perform an opera. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea huffs, leaning her head into her hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You do realize, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that unless Dimitri also shows up topless you look like a thirsty dweeb.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nah, he takes it slower than me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude explains easily. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And he’s used to having a thirsty dweeb for a partner. He just lives with two bigger, queerer dweebs than him. One of whom is such a flirt he makes me look like a eunuch. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I highly doubt that’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>possible, Dorothea argues. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’d be surprised. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re right, I </span>
  </em>
  <span>would </span>
  <em>
    <span>be surprised because there is no shortage of gross guys that try and pick me up in the theater and yet none of them are as big a horny geek as you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude gasps in the most vaudevillian manner. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Even the sixty-year-old professor?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea stops to think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, we’ll leave him out of it. All people within ten years of my age bracket, then.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can live with that, my lovely lost saint. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea smirks while blushing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Love you too, Claude. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Around that time, Bernie logs in, still in a giant gray college sweater. She doesn’t say anything but looks to the screen on her left. Her eyes widen. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m logging out.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, no, Bernie, don’t do that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea is first to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll come back when Claude puts a shirt on, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is all she says before disconnecting. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nice going, Claude. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda nods. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Put a shirt on, dude, you’re scaring the girls. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude shrugs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, yeah, I didn’t really think through that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He leans to get up. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How could you </span>
  </em>
  <span>not </span>
  <em>
    <span>think that up? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda isn’t facing the screen, but Claude as he starts to walk off, phone in his pocket. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Have you </span>
  </em>
  <span>met </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bernadetta?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m going, I’m going. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s in his room, and Hilda sighs. Dorothea says </span>
  <em>
    <span>You seemed really upset about that, darling. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda just takes the tablet before stealing his spot on the couch. Maybe she overreacted, but she’s absolutely not going to have him nerving Marianne out under </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>circumstances. Claude is the only one here who could find a way to scare a ghost, and she doesn’t want Marianne to ghost her anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The alert for the chat room goes off, and Dorothea squeals when she sees who it is. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Petra! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hello, Dorothea, my dear! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Petra's reception is shoddy, but if it works for her Hilda won't complain. Petra looks again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, and I am seeing you too, Hilda! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, Petra. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My God, babe, you look gorgeous. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea looks like she has hearts in her eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hilda, you're into girls. Don't you agree?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Petra's got her hair down and is wearing an orange tube top. Nothing special, but Hilda guesses that just seeing someone you love can have that effect seeing as she's absolutely gotten the doki-dokis from Marianne just wearing a normal blouse and skirt. So Hilda just flashes a thumbs-up, giggling as she sees how taken Dorothea is. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nice digs, Petra. Though I bet five dollars now that Dora's not gonna wanna sleep with me tonight. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Petra looks a little conflicted. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am certainly not intending to affect anything. I am only wearing the clothes I am sleeping in. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You could have worn a parka and she would be the same, Petra. You're fine. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude finally pops back into focus, wearing a golden flannel shirt. Dorothea smirks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I thought I was the lesbian around here. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude tosses his head back on the pillow, holding his phone up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I only take fashion advice from the best. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just be glad he's wearing anything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda warns her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You're getting Bernie, right? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Pressing some buttons on his screen (and giving everyone a close view of his fingers) he says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bern and Lin should be here momentarily. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As if on cue, Bernadetta joins quietly, still not one to speak too much around others. She still can't believe Bernie's here at all, and she knows that Lin's not the type to convince her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lin will be here shortly, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is all she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Excellent. My plan is coming to fruition.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda rolls her eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, Claude, because you know that everyone has a busy schedule right now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea hums. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Then again, I'm seriously surprised Lin is attending at all. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernie nods, gulping like she just got handed a pop quiz. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Th-that's fair. It's not our scene. W-we just… </span>
  </em>
  <span>She throws her hands up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The more the merrier, I guess.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Glad to have you, Bernie, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea says. Hilda nods affirmatively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Linhardt is the next to log in. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they drawl lazily. They're wearing a green suit far too big for them and a pink feather boa that Hilda suspects doubles as a pillow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good to see you, Bernie Bear. It's been too long.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernie giggles. Hilda loves the sound. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's been an hour. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You look cute, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they tell her with a subtle smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, stop. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Petra coos. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bernadette, your boyfriend is making my heart full! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Partner, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she corrects too quickly. Then, as if embarrassed at herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They're, uh, my partner. Not a boy.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She ducks, embarrassed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Petra's as unshaken as ever. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I have gladness to know. Thank you! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Linhardt smiles, lying upside down. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My knight in shining armor, Bernadetta. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, stop it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bernie repeats. That might be the phrase she uses most.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dimitri is next to log in, wearing a striped shirt, camera chest-up. Hilda sees Claude light up immediately. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hello, everyone, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dimitri says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good to see you all. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, it is very good to see you too, babe. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude looks a thousand times happier. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You look very handsome, Claude.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda snorts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Trust me, that shirt was a very lucky addition. Your man almost went shirtless.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dimitri blushes instantly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Uh, duh, I, um… that's very interesting.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea cackles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is like the official board meeting of the Very Thirsty Queers. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda busts up laughing at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I have already been hydrating myself, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Petra informs her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda is about to respond when she gets a private DM. It’s from Marianne. She opens it before she has time to react. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Add me to the group chat? Thanks. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda gasps and opens the invite option, vaguely hearing Claude say </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do you wanna tell her what that means or should I? </span>
  </em>
  <span>as she adds Marianne in.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And there we go! </span>
  </em>
  <span>She says quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the bottom right, Marianne types. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hello, everyone. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda has to resist the urge to type a response instead of talking. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I- uh, hello! </span>
  </em>
  <span>More confident now that she got the muck out of her engines, she says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hi there, Marianne. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hello, darling, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea adds. Petra waves and even Bernie cracks a tiny smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks for the welcome, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Hilda gets another DM from her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You look lovely. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>If anyone notices how red she blushes upon seeing that, or how she looks like she’s going to blackout, no one comments. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you! 🥰</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea is next to speak. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know for a fact that Hilda’s been keeping up on the jewelry making. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Huh? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Apparently Hilda missed a few words. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We were just talking about how people are keeping themselves occupied during the quarantine. And naturally, your jewelry came up. </span>
  </em>
  <span>With a gasp too exaggerated to be spontaneous, Dorothea adds </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you </span>
  </em>
  <span>wearing </span>
  <em>
    <span>one of your pieces right now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda blushes as she remembers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh. Oh, yeah. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She gingerly pulls the front of the necklace towards the camera with one hand, trying to keep the tablet on her with the other. In the back of her mind, she figures that Dorothea is just trying to help set her up because this necklace cannot look that great.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Very nice, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dimitri offers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Great work, Hilda. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What? I mean, it’s just, it’s just, like… </span>
  </em>
  <span>flustered, Hilda shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In her window, Marianne types </span>
  <em>
    <span>It looks lovely. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my God, you’re gonna kill me, babe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda blurts, ducking. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Heehee, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey Bern, she sounds like you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Linhardt notes. Sure enough, their chin is already resting on their feather boa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernadetta hides her head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Lin! I swear! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne offers a sympathetic heart emoji in chat. Not blue, Hilda notes as if that means something. Bernadetta blurts </span>
  <em>
    <span>huh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not a question, a statement with no real meaning. She starts to type, the clickety-clack so noisy Hilda can hear it on-screen and in real life. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You doing something? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lin asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude finally cuts in. </span>
  <em>
    <span>As much as I could chat with you all for hours, I </span>
  </em>
  <span>did </span>
  <em>
    <span>intend for us to game around a little. That is if everyone wants. And I’m willing to guess that you want.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernie nods. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m in. Don’t mind me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dimitri smiles before nodding. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m in if everyone else is in. That'll be a good way to get to know each other.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea giggles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Trust me, I know these dweebs way too well for comfort. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lin yawns. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The way Bernie describes you, I think I know you four that well already.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hush, you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Petra giggles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am not knowing you all as well aside from anything that Dorothea is saying, so I am full of excitement!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Let’s play, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types. Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just don’t make me laugh too hard or my folks will wonder what’s gotten into me. And seeing who I’m playing with, I’d rather not divulge. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda cracks up, falling into the couch so suddenly she nearly forgets the tablet. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, gods. This queer theatrical fuckshow. Marianne, you know I make no promises.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne types a blue heart. Hilda blushes upon seeing it. Dorothea giggles in the background.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay then, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Let's get this fuckshow on the road.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am not editing this and adding to this as we speak what gave you that idea</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Hilda wasn’t sure how things would be with Marianne tonight, considering they haven’t spoken for ages before. What it feels like is like they haven’t missed a step, and Hilda loves it. She drinks it in, feels the comfort in her skin, and is so giddy about it that she swears she sees herself vibrating in the screen that reflects her. She's so happy that she almost forgets what it's like to miss her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's a problem, but it's a problem for future Hilda, not current Hilda.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're halfway through the second game of the night. The first was a slasher-based trivia game, which Hilda still can't believe is a sentence Claude said aloud perfectly casually. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm sorry, a </span>
  </em>
  <span>what?! she remembered saying. Claude just said </span>
  <em>
    <span>Have you never </span>
  </em>
  <span>played </span>
  <em>
    <span>these before, kitten? </span>
  </em>
  <span>When Hilda shook her head, Claude just laughed to himself- extra ominous, since he sacrificed his screen to stream the games. Hilda’s never had a brain for trivia and she was so confused by the typing thing they told her to do on the killing room floor that she just screamed </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck do you want from me </span>
  </em>
  <span>as she was killed first. She didn’t recover, and distantly she thinks Dimitri wins or something like that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks at the screen names in the second game. One of them is </span>
  <em>
    <span>TriviaKing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so yeah, Dimitri did win. At least this game is more Hilda’s speed. It’s basically Balderdash (and the fact that she’s comparing it to a board game makes her feel old as fuck), but more personalized so it is instead about those in the room instead of random trivia. Hilda’s a snoop and has just the right amount of inconsistent memory to get a few answers right. When </span>
  <em>
    <span>Adorothea </span>
  </em>
  <span>i</span>
  <span>s asked what song she last danced to, she’s the only one to guess a song called </span>
  <em>
    <span>La Seine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, remembering Dorothea air-guitaring to it as she got dressed a couple of days back while Hilda watched through the cracked door from the living room couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Dorothea asks her </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh! How did you know that? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda smiles like a fool with red blood running through her veins.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That is sounding very adorable, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Petra notes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I will be looking this song up later. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m getting tag-teamed! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea protests. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not in a fun way either, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne messages her with a winking face and thumbs up. While Hilda wants to tell her </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t worry about it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she doesn’t give away that she feared that Marianne would </span>
  <span>be jealous and instead just fires back </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m very observant. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me too, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she types. Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I hope your question is just as revealing. I could use a few points. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Hilda a second to realize that Marianne is flirting with her, but when she does, she spaces out so hard she misses </span>
  <em>
    <span>hardtyhar</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s round until Dorothea says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yo! Earth to Hilda! </span>
  </em>
  <span>When she snaps to (saying a not-at-all suspicious </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m totally here!</span>
  </em>
  <span>) she finds that Marianne has typed in a lot of laughing emojis. Marianne rarely laughs, so as embarrassed as she is, she hopes that Marianne </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>in fact actually laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next question is Marianne’s. The question is </span>
  <em>
    <span>If MariMari could, she would get her degree in _____. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda giggles. This is almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>easy. Meanwhile, everyone else seems to be lost in thought with their lies.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>These are gonna be way off, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda says smugly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Probably, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the answers come up. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Horses</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Therapy</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Travel</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Depression </span>
  </em>
  <span>(Hilda </span>
  <em>
    <span>oof</span>
  </em>
  <span>s at that. Marianne types an F when she does.)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The color blue</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Veterinarian</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How to cope with asshole parents</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hairstyling </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not the worst answers, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne decides. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, because it’s definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>the color blue </span>
  <em>
    <span>or </span>
  </em>
  <span>how to cope with asshole parents, </span>
  <span>Hilda fires back, a smirk on her face as she takes point-zero-five seconds to pick the one she knows is correct. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I mean if they made degrees in coping, I’d go for it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda giggles and Bernadetta says <em>S</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>ame honestly. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I mean, you </span>
  </em>
  <span>do </span>
  <em>
    <span>have to teach me how to do those amazing braid crowns you do, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea says with a wink. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I’m sorry, especially to Dimitri, but blue is Marianne’s color, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She rocks it.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goodness! 😳 </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Can’t argue that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dimitri concedes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or, well, if she can have light blue I’ll rule over the darkness. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda smirks and clicks on the tablet files to find a picture she made a long time ago and loves to use to fluster Marianne when she can. Chuffed to find it, she’s about to post it in chat until she sees that the answers are about to be read. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Horses </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the first one picked, by </span>
  <em>
    <span>UrAllClaudes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>immediately revealed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;3 petra :)</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s lie</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda laughs into her arm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Horses? Really? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know she likes horses! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude defends. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m in college to translate dead languages, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Linhardt points out, already using their boa as a pillow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t go in to get a degree in words. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, not all of us can be super college eggheads. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda, meanwhile, notices that the next answer, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Depression, </span>
  </em>
  <span>was picked by </span>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;3 petra :). </span>
  </em>
  <span>She just looks at everyone, confused. Dorothea is the one to ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>why did you pick that one? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda’s glad she did because her own tone would have been angry. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I thought… she would be going to school to treat depression with others. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s ok! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types too quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The answer is revealed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bernie Bear’s. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bernie smiles weakly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Depression pals? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>👊 </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types, to Bernie’s glee, as she mimics the motion in real life. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Neato, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda says, not sure of the last time that Bernie has been that happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then her own answer comes up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Veterinarian. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda smirks until she sees </span>
  <em>
    <span>Adorothea, Trivia King, hardtyhar, and Bernie Bear </span>
  </em>
  <span>all pop up by it. <em>Holy fuck.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is</span>
  <em>
    <span> that it? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dimitri asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda cheers before the answer is flipped over. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Looks like it ain’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude teases. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda points at the screen as the answer reveals </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatthehild?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Motioning as if raking in money, she cries </span>
  <span>Read</span>
  <em>
    <span> it and weep, bitches! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God </span>
  </em>
  <span>damn, Dorothea breathes. Then, with a smirk, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I should have known. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>makes up the deficit of you missing last round entirely! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude teases. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda grins wider. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well, if that didn’t, this does. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The answer Therapy comes up, and Hilda picks it. As she expected, it’s correct. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Three thousand points for this hot bitch! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernadetta looks up a little. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You wanna do… therapy? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I thought your thing was horses, dear, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea adds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The notification </span>
  <em>
    <span>Marianne is typing </span>
  </em>
  <span>displays for awhile. Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I specifically would go in for, I guess, whatever they call the animal therapy degrees. I love the idea of animals helping people mentally. It would make me happy to do that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda smiles tenderly. There’s a lot Marianne isn’t saying, and while everyone could gather some of it only she gathers all of it. Though by the way Bernie says </span>
  <em>
    <span>that's cool, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dimitri says </span>
  <em>
    <span>that's very noble of you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Petra says </span>
  <em>
    <span>that is very lovely of you, Marianne, </span>
  </em>
  <span>what they get, they love, as they should.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You guys 🥺</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda smirks. If Marianne is flustered now, she's gonna go feral after Hilda posts the image she always does. She doesn't see whose turn it is. She's already won.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the chat, she posts:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea's icon comes up as Hilda skims </span>
  <em>
    <span>What was Trivia King's favorite show when they were ten? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda remembers that it was the same as it is now- an anime no ten year old should watch. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Really, babe? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea asks. Hilda just giggles naughtily. Linhardt and Bernie look at each other and Lin giggles first. Petra </span>
  <em>
    <span>ooh</span>
  </em>
  <span>s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, in the chat:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>AfsdhddfafgfVFAddfarfdsdf STOP </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda cackles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I had to, Marianne, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she insists. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>had </span>
  <em>
    <span>to! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>weh… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types. Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine. But just that one, ok? My heart can't take it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda flashes a thumbs up. One was all she needed. Besides, the power hour lasts all the time with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda beholds the drawing that's on the game playing on Claude's screen. It's in two shades of red, and that's honestly the first and last thing Hilda could tell anyone about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Claude, what the fuck is this? </span>
  </em>
  <span>She finally asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dimitri laughs, boisterous and consuming. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Look, I think if you'd seen what I got you all wouldn't do any better.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I would, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bernie squeaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne types 👎👎. Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda just giggles, trying to think of a good answer. Part of it looks like… some sort of building, shaped like a lightning strike, with scribbles surrounding it and a face to the side frowning with teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don't even…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda throws her hands up and types something. Linhardt yawns and cracks their knuckles. Petra vocalizes several hums and syllables; she and Dorothea were made for each other. Eventually, they all finish typing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The answers pop up.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The saddest rainstorm </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In a mental fog </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My inner emotions </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Open destruction </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A very tortured artist </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anxiety </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Claude I swear to fucking God </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I pass on this</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A peak of laughter busts through the group, Hilda loudest of all. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm guessing it's probably not </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude I swear to fucking God, Lin dryly notes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You never know, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea defends. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It could be. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It didn't say I wrote down the answer, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bernie says quietly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but I think I did.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda just keeps giggling. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I feel bad that I gave a serious answer. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If it helps, I did too, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dimitri says. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks for humoring me, babe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a dejected Claude says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Hilda settles on an answer. She realizes she's the last to pick as the AI host prepares to select answers and giggles again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I just didn't freakin' know what to pick! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Here's what you picked, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the AI says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first answer to come up is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Open Destruction, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the pick of profiles DoroTea and hardt attack. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's first, that's never good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda notes. Indeed, it's revealed to be mitrib's.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you both, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dimitri says with a smile as if politely accepting an umbrella in the rain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next chosen answer is </span>
  <em>
    <span>The saddest rainstorm, </span>
  </em>
  <span>by TheHorseGirl. Hilda beams, knowing it’s her answer. There’s something even nicer about being picked by Marianne. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks, hon, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she says with a grin as hilDDa pops up. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>'Thanks, hon', </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea repeats dreamily. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hush. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In chat, Marianne types </span>
  <em>
    <span>you're welcome dearest 💙 </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Hilda thinks that she's gonna pass out from embarrassment, turning pinker than her hair. Marianne must be giggling from her bed on the other side of the screen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, it's shown that hilDDa, mitrib, and MacPetra all have picked </span>
  <em>
    <span>In a mental fog. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda tries to count on her fingers to see if that's the answer, but judging by how Claude says </span>
  <em>
    <span>aw, damn it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it apparently is not. Indeed, hardt attack shows up as a pile of Zs to absorb all the points. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nice, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they drawl, looking pleased as punch. Bernie whistles.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is that not fog? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Petra asks, confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goddamn it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda moans. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You got half of us.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not </span>
  </em>
  <span>half, Dimitri points out before he can stop himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, whatever, 'my trib'.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Everyone except Petra laughs at Hilda's deliberate mispronunciation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It was an exaggeration! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Asfdffsfrfsedsafs, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types. Then, in a separate message: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t notice that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dimitri chuckles politely. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I deserve that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, the answer </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anxiety </span>
  </em>
  <span>is picked by the last artist, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hibernator. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>right. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yay! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bernie claps twice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good round, Lin!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>High five, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lin responds. The two slap their screens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Hilda screams </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?! Anxiety? </span>
  </em>
  <span>That's </span>
  <em>
    <span>what that was?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay I guess, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Look, how would you depict anxiety? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude responds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My hands were tied, kitten.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'd just draw Bernadetta! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernadetta shrugs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That's fair. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You had a tough one, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dimitri notes. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ever the supportive partner, Dimi, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea notes with a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not saying it was a great representation, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he rebuts. She snorts laughter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone’s answer pops up as points are distributed. It’s revealed that hibernator wrote </span>
  <em>
    <span>My inner emotions, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and that she’s in the lead with 4,500 points. After her is Lin with 4,000, Dimitri with 3,000, and the rest quite below that</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She giggles and says </span>
  <em>
    <span>See, that’s how I knew what it was, because my inner emotions are anxiety. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m a very tortured artist, Dorothea? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude asks, a smile on his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If that’s the shit you draw, then yeah, I’m worried for you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Claude says anything to combat this, Bernadetta says </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, mine! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda sighs with relief because she knows Bernadetta is good at drawing, just like she’s good at writing and really every artistic thing she sets her mind to, though you’d have an easier time telling Dorothea she’s beautiful because at least she doesn’t panic and run off into her room, the poor dear. Indeed, the drawing in purple is of a very clear and detailed (if fussless) horse with sunglasses, and a tiny stick figure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much </span>
  <em>
    <span>better, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda says pointedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the chat: </span>
  <em>
    <span>DORTE</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernadetta giggles, seeing it before Hilda. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh! You like horses, right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bern, I think </span>
  </em>
  <span>The Horse Girl </span>
  <em>
    <span>might be fond of them, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda points out with a giggle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Claude distantly notes </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s a dope-ass horse.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is Dorte that tall? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda teases. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And does he have those rocking sunglasses?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Feels like it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types. Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, but after quarantine, I absolutely have to get him some. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, yes. Quarantine. Hilda sighs as she suddenly remembers that that’s still a thing. She hopes Marianne doesn’t notice and ask if she’s okay. She never likes guilting Marianne. In one window, Bernadetta is feverishly typing into her computer, in the zone, which Hilda finds weird since she doesn’t have to answer her own drawing. In another window, Dimitri is also typing, a pensive look on his face. Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Claude, I’m gonna send you something. After this round, check it out, okay? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Definitely. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Then Claude sees the look on his boyfriend’s face. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yo, everything cool?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda looks at Dimitri. He definitely looks a little crestfallen. Still, he says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not sure. I just think that it’d be good for you to look at it later. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That does it for her. She looks at everyone and says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yo, can we pause this? Is this pausable?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a live game, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lin points out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You sound like my mom. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m doing shit this round, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude decides. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll skip. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Honestly, I’m not feeling it either, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dimitri adds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry, everyone. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda looks at everyone else. They all seem very pensive, and Bernadetta looks outright terrified. She and Dorothea exchange a look. Dorothea says </span>
  <em>
    <span>let’s just cut this short, then maybe after whatever happens happens we start over. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone vaguely voices agreement, with Marianne posting a thumbs-up. Bernadetta jokes </span>
  <em>
    <span>Guess that means I won, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but she’s already breathing very shallowly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lin looks towards her screen. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You gonna be okay?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here if you aren’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they tell her. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But what if you’re hurt too? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re good at handling that. Even if you’re freaking out over yourself. So at the very least, it’s symbiotic panic. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s strangely comforting. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not enough for Bernie to breathe normally. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just count to ten, babe. We practiced this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Dorothea, Hilda, and Petra look at each other, then at Claude’s screen as they shut down the game and return to the menu. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am honestly not sure what is happening, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Petra says. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me either, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea responds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And that’s what’s scaring me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda looks off in the distance, trying to think of how the hell it all got to this moment. She goes to play some music from her tablet to calm herself and others down. Dorothea’s eyes widen. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, I know this song, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she breathes, nearly crying. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me too, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne types. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stopped what I was playing for this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea closes her eyes, and Petra says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you doing okay, my heart? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, yeah, I’m just… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she starts singing when the words come up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am not the only traveler, who has not repaid her debt. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea’s nothing like the singer, who nearly whispers the lyrics like she barely has breath to spare. Dorothea’s classically trained, just like she is classically beautiful, and her voice naturally booms even at its lowest. It’s enough to fill Hilda’s thoughts, allowing her to focus on steadying her breaths. She doesn’t realize she’s withholding tears until her eyes sting, then she screws them shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hears the DM sound go off, shocking her from her trance. It’s Marianne. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you alright?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wish you were here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda responds before she can stop herself, before she even fully realizes that she so desperately wishes Marianne was here, holding her hand and keeping her from crying, coaxing Hilda into being strong for her without doing anything but existing. Marianne might have messaged her, and Hilda thought she was okay with that, but the couch feels so lonely without her presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me too, Hilda.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then why aren’t we talking? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no answer to that DM. Hilda has to stop herself from typing an apology. Has to stop herself from typing at all. Has to focus to listen to Dorothea sing </span>
  <em>
    <span>When this world is no more, the moon is all we’ll see. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda mouths </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll ask you to fly away with me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Petra smiles sadly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You have a blessing, Dorothea.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Definitely, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda chokes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn't stop singing, but the blush is evident as she sings </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don't mind. If you're with me, then everything's alright.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda gulps down a sob. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I, uh… totally didn't see what song played, I just pressed play on the list. Uhm, this is fucking sad. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She sort of feels like she </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to defend to Marianne that she wasn't guilting her, even though this whole atmosphere of sadness and unknown bad news and being around three couples who communicate with each other as a single pining girl wishing that her best friend, her love, was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>here </span>
  </em>
  <span>for her in some way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she gives in and starts crying, Claude says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, I think we've got it down. I, uh… </span>
  </em>
  <span>He shuts the stream off to show his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now it's serious, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda notes. She notices Dorothea isn't at her screen anymore. Then she hears the door open and watches her friend, dress and all, sprint across the room to sit next to her, taking her hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Go ahead, dude, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she whispers. Hilda holds Dorothea close. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I, uh… no one's gonna be happy to hear this, but… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude clears his throat. When he goes to speak again, he just stares off into space, a pensive look on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Claude? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bernadetta whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude blinks his way back into reality. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry, y'all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dimitri puts his hand up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I got it, hon. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claude nods his thanks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>So, the deadline… for this whole quarantine thing… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda's eyes widen. She gets it early. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>Oh no, </em>she mumbles. <em>Oh no, oh no, oh no.</em></span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Who wants a perspective shift </p><p>I hope that's youuuuuuuuu</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Marianne closes her eyes. She isn't sure if she should do this, but she's very concerned. She could talk to Hilda herself- and a part of her thinks that she should have- but she knows how Hilda is. After the initial shock, Hilda would lie to her and say that she’s fine, and she can’t imagine that Hilda is fine. Especially after what she said, which she'd take back after the dust settled. Hilda shouldn’t have to be fine if she doesn’t want to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She remembers that night where everyone got together over facecam, how happy Hilda was just to talk to her, how lively she was around everyone. Marianne loved it. Hilda should get to be that way all the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was before Dimitri announced that the stay-at-home order would be two months longer. Just before, Hilda had been anxious. Impatient. Stressed out. She asked flat-out why Marianne wasn't talking to her and Marianne knew she wouldn't have an answer that made sense. After, Hilda asked over DM if Marianne was going to be okay at her parents' house. Or at all. The whole time, she was watching Hilda on-screen with Dorothea, buried into the starlet's arm, barely holding back her tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne couldn't take it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm sorry. I have to go. I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Marianne disconnected and started to cry. She's a master at keeping it quiet in case her parents would hear, would come in and question her. Marianne isn't sure what her answer would be. She had no books to blame it on, and they don't really believe in the stay-at-home order as a necessary evil. If Marianne told them the truth… she never would. She couldn't. Not while she was stuck with them, for now months longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It really feels pathetic, to absolutely withhold her best friend, the girl she loves, from her parent's consciousness like she doesn't matter, even though she does, she matters </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>much. It's even more pathetic that Marianne feels ashamed to have feelings for Hilda. For another girl. The more that Marianne has to hide her true feelings from parents, the more ashamed she feels for having them. The more she wishes… that she was normal. That she wasn't a depressed, shameful beast of a girl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s not something that Hilda needs from a friend, much less a partner. Even if she thinks she can tolerate it… goddess help her, she really should be treasured. Known fearlessly. Loved without a cost. And she should damn well be able to cry for herself, not submit herself to a life of drying Marianne’s tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne is weak. She knows this. She remembers when she was younger, praying to the Goddess to give her strength to meet her. Suicide is a sin, her parish taught her, but so is loving women, and she can’t stop that- no matter how much her parents wish that she would. Maybe she shouldn’t be worried that her parents keep trying to drag her to church despite the stay-at-home orders that came in way too late in their state, but the idea of the virus claiming her… at the very least, she can say that she is still not strong enough to meet the Goddess yet, even though she hasn’t prayed for that in ages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not since she met Hilda. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne knew she loved women from a young age, but she had never met a woman that seemed like she had come straight from her fantasies until she had met and befriended Hilda. Hilda is kind to her in a way that suggests that she is not that kind to everyone else, and Marianne can’t help but wonder if it’s because she is so fragile that Hilda knew to treat her with kid gloves. Either way, she’s kind, funny, loving, incredibly beautiful, and pushes herself to be better than she was the day before; strength that Marianne wishes she emulated better.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had Marianne described the ideal girl for her as a child, it would probably be a knight with pink hair who took care of her and loved her and let her grow up to be strong, and Hilda is all of that except for, Marianne fears, the last thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs, rolling over in her bed again, the faint buzz of worship music coming from outside her closed door. The guest room that was once Marianne’s own is a lot less personal and more sanitized than it was when she lived there so many years before, with only a bed, dresser, and bookshelf, all white. Just as well, as it reminds her that it’s temporary and she absolutely does not like being here. The longer she is around her parents, the more she forgets what it is like to be spiritual in a way that does not condemn herself. To love the Goddess and believe that the Goddess accepts her as she is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why should she, when Marianne doesn't accept herself?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And why does Hilda?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne sighs again. She's ever the coward for considering this; even if she has her reasons for not talking to Hilda, circumventing her to ask someone about her speaks to her fear to talk to Hilda right now. Hilda, the invisible presence on her bed. Hilda, the inaudible words in her head. Hilda, the imagined kiss on the side of her face. Hilda, everything that her parents still caution her against, never directly anymore, but through the looks in their eyes and the implications in their words and the lock removed from Marianne's door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is Marianne buying it? Her parents say the savior is the Goddess and she alone, but a lot of Marianne's salvation is due to Hilda pushing her to be her best self. Marianne just can't learn how to be her own savior. And at the very least, she wants to be one for Hilda. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is the best way of going about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one more sigh and a prayer too brief to be enthusiastic, she sends the first message.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hello. This is Marianne.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne sets her phone down on her stomach and clutches her head. At the very least, this will pass the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, her phone vibrates.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>yeah I remember you </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>plus your name is just above</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne looks at her message. She can see Bernadetta’s name above the messages- of course, that's how she found her. Go figure that hers would also pop up for Bernadetta.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh! </span>
  </em>
  <span>In real life, she chuckles sardonically. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That's silly of me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>you're good</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne still isn't sure what she wants to say. She shouldn't ask how Hilda is from the jump. That's inconsiderate. Besides, this is how she makes friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So: </span>
  <em>
    <span>How have you held up in recent times, especially with the news? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>ok mostly. anxious but we all are. honestly kind of nice that they're at my level.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>is that rude to say? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne snickers. At least that’s honest. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not generally the way I think, but it’s honestly valid. No one likes feeling alone in their thoughts. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>whew</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>ok i was really feeling like a jerk over that</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re fine, Bernadetta. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>💙</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>😀</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne feels herself settling into a rhythm for the first time in ages. She's glad she talked to Bernadetta. She's blunter than Dorothea and more serious than Claude. Plus, Dorothea would tell Hilda as soon as they talked because she loves Hilda. Not in the way that Marianne does, but… she's good to Hilda in ways that Marianne isn't yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernadetta isn't nearly as intimidating. Besides, she reminds Marianne of herself. When she jokingly called them both </span>
  <em>
    <span>depression twins </span>
  </em>
  <span>that night, it represented how alike they were in general. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How is Linhardt these days? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>oh thanks for asking</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>but i think they’d appreciate if i kept most of it to myself</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s certainly fair. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne tries not to think of how Hilda blurted out a few things about Bernadetta already. The way she stopped after just elaborating that her father was a piece of shit that tried to force her to become the perfect wife and begged Marianne not to tell anyone makes her think that isn’t the whole of Bernadetta's backstory, but she isn’t entitled to know any more than that. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>but what i can say is that</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>well </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I thought this would be easier for lin than it is cause theyre so lazy</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>and i can call them lazy, they don’t mind</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>which is good because they are</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne giggles at the sudden verbal onslaught. It seems like Bernadetta has a way of giving her every thought out through the act of overjustification. Marianne used to overjustify with Hilda but stopped after a while. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>can i ask you a question</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne’s eyebrow raises. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wouldn’t mind if you did. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>are you and hilda fighting</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne covers her mouth. She expected a lot of things, but not Bernadetta bringing up the point before she herself had a chance. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We are not fighting. And I should hope that she is not visibly angry with me. I’d hate that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>she misses you</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>she’s too proud to say it aloud but</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i can tell. claude can tell. dorothea was born knowing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>if anyone knows what it’s like to miss a cute girl it’s dorothea</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne blushes. She’s definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to think about how Bernadetta is the second girl to ever call her cute. She’s honestly a little surprised that she’s not trying to justify it somehow. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m hoping that it isn’t too bad. I hate the idea of making her suffer. She deserves better than that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i mean </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>idk </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>maybe you two are together or maybe you’re just friends but she loves you a lot</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know that she does. I’m very grateful for that. We are just friends, however. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>you are?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>sorry! I didnt know!!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne sighs deeply, hand over her eyes. Oh no, now she’s gone and done it. Either she just confused poor Bernadetta or Hilda has told the shut-in girl something different. Neither one sounds great.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bernadetta, can I ask what you do know?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Im sorry! I dont know ANYTHING</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, it's ok Bernadetta. I'm not angry. It's just something I would appreciate if you told me. I'm very confused right now. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I mean it's true and I don't but</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne gulps. For some reason, she grabs her throw blanket and sets it in between her legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I just know that hilda loves you a lot</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>and idk every time you two visit yr all over each other</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>soooooooo i might have sort have made some assumptions and im really sorry!!!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne giggles. That wasn't nearly as bad as she feared, and her thighs stop clutching the blanket. Amused, she covers up with it, turning on her side.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don't mind, really. You're fine, Bernadetta. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>ok</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne decides that she likes Bernadetta. The experiences she had with her, small as they are, give off a trustworthy vibe. It’s one thing for Marianne to like someone. Generally speaking, it doesn’t take much- they’re all human beings trying to get a grip on this funny thing called life. To trust someone, however, takes a lot more faith from her. She’s learned the pitfalls of trusting people firsthand. Bernadetta just seems like someone Marianne can take a chance on. She doesn’t keep secrets and likely couldn’t if she tried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne squeezes the side of her pillow for a moment, breathing heavily. Just because she thinks she can trust Bernadetta doesn’t make this moment any easier. She already feels something changing. Before she can talk herself out of it, she starts typing. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Right now Hilda and I are talking less. I asked for that. Some of it was because the place I am staying in is</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks at her closed door with no lock. She vividly recalls the living room just outside at the end of the short hall. She can still hear the praise music above the crackling fire, choking any homey elements of her parents’ house like weeds choking a flower. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>not the best environment. She’d probably get that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>yeah</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>a good environment means a lot</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne smiles sadly. Of course, Bernadetta would understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I suppose the rest of it was personal. Not personal against Hilda. I just… to put it in general terms, I wanted to prove some things to myself. Stop being beholden to some past shame that's really taking hold. I think if I work that out… it'll be better for us both.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne really hopes that Bernadetta doesn't push her any further, but she isn't sure where that conversation could go otherwise. She kind of wants to hide under her blanket, but resists the urge. If her parents barge in, it would look compromising, and she doesn't want to give them the fuel they crave. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I know what you mean</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as Marianne starts to ask what </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>means, Bernadetta continues.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>im trying to be more social</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>talk to people. get out of my room more. be someone</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>when i met lin i assumed that i had to be better to</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i guess</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>deserve them?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>which is silly when i say it aloud</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne's a little surprised that Bernadetta seems to read her intentions so well. They've always seemed a little alike, but Marianne also knew what differentiated them. Still, best not to dwell on it- she'd rather cut in with a response.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I mean</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The "Bernie Bear is Typing" notification at the bottom of the screen disappears.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I won't act like I don't feel that way in some respects. Hilda takes care of me so much. I want to be better at returning the favor, but it's hard when there's so much about myself that I want to fix. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i get that</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>but lin motivated me to do things that i wanted to do but was too scared to</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>sometimes just by being</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>like I was more motivated to do friday with everyone bc of them</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>so i think the same will happen with hild if u let it</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you think so?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>it's better than suffering alone</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i know a thing or two about unhealthy environments</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>and its not only ok that you need her help</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>you can probably improve what you want with &amp; for her</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>hope that makes sense</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It does, which honestly scares Marianne more. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve given me a lot to think about, Bernadetta. Thank you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re a very smart woman.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>oh wow</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Im</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>not so sure about that</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>but thank you</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>😀</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne gives that a heart react and lets the conversation rest, leaving her alone with her thoughts. It’s frightening, but it’s where she needs to be.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s been an hour since Marianne finished messaging Bernie, and she’s spent it in the same way- on the bed, staring at her phone, shaking in fear. This could be ended so easily, but she isn’t sure if she should. If she has the right. The idea of spending time with Hilda in any way seems counterintuitive to work on herself. It’s indulgent for Marianne, and though she loves Hilda- Goddess, more than anything, despite what anyone says- she can’t possibly deserve that. She hasn’t earned selfishness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s only barely gotten out of bed for more than work in the past year or so, and that in itself is due to Hilda. Honestly, so is her talking to people. Sure, it's mostly Hilda's roommates, but even when Hilda isn't there, she still wants to make her spirit proud. She's learned to start accepting the compliments that Hilda gives her. At first, it was because Hilda could argue the point for hours and Marianne just pre-emptively accepted it, but subconsciously there was a part that enjoyed it. A part of her was flattered that Hilda thought such a way, and she can remember thinking that she's not so bad because at least one person, the best person she knows, thinks highly of her, and even if Marianne isn't entirely sure why, she does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And right now, what's Marianne doing other than checking on Hilda's wellness? It's hard for the two of them not to be tethered. The fact that Hilda misses her… well, it doesn't surprise her. She's felt Hilda's affection grow from friendly to romantic for a while now. The fantasy girl could become a reality. It's just that Marianne wasn't ready then. She didn't love herself, and subconsciously, a part of her refused to let her love another girl. She just… needed to have Hilda in her life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it turns out, maybe Hilda needs her too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a great perhaps, but the question mark is what makes her start typing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda’s gonna lose her goddamn mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been just twenty-six days since this whole thing started. Three weeks, five days. And yet she feels like she’s on a deserted island. Some of the things Claude casually says about the penal system have made her feel grateful enough to not compare this to prison, but she feels like she’s just day by day scratching a tally mark onto a coconut tree, staring down a vast empty ocean waiting for the sun to set, occasionally getting food, seeing friends who also got shipwrecked, and occasionally getting a message in a bottle detailing how utterly fucked the world is. And meanwhile, she keeps gravitating to longing for her lady love, Marianne, somewhere out there, not on this island but a clear enough hallucination to keep Hilda hoping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, that’s an imperfect analogy. It’s imperfect because she’s perfectly comfortable in her tiny shitty home, she doesn’t have to hunt for food as much as drag her depressed ass into the kitchen and make some cereal. The news doesn’t come from a message in a bottle, it comes from </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere </span>
  </em>
  <span>and unless she fucking hides under her blanket or some shit like that, she’s gonna hear some of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she learned a couple of days ago that she's not even a third of the way through it all. She's not a third of the way through it and she's already feeling so low that she's scared to see what's lower. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right now she’s in the bedroom trying to work on a necklace from what’s left of her parts. It’s coming out like a big bowl of leftover stew, but maybe… she doesn't know, maybe Dorothea will like it. Though Dorothea has high standards and this certainly doesn’t meet them; it’s a slight gold chain adorned by a little oval plaque with a few jewels on them, red and green. (The humming of </span>
  <em>
    <span>All I Want For Christmas Is You </span>
  </em>
  <span>is a mere coincidence, she’s sure.) She thinks about where this will go. She wouldn’t dare sell it, and she isn’t sure any of her friends would want it. Marianne would accept it too unenthusiastically for Hilda to miss- and right now she’s not sure she’d take it at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs and sets the half-finished necklace on the nearby dresser. The only reason she doesn’t throw it against the wall is so Bernie doesn’t have a heart attack. She’s in the room next to her, giggling enough to hear through the paper-thin walls, clickety-clacking on her keyboard. Bernie’s not often very happy; best not to scare her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though Hilda can't see how she can be happy at a time like this at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda retreats to her bed, tears in her eyes. She’s not good at anything right now, she’s tired of hearing everything going wrong, she doesn’t know when this will end, and the girl she would vent to is stuck with hyper-religious parents who don’t let her be free to be herself, and Hilda doesn’t know if that’s connected to why Marianne talks to her so rarely recently, why she left when they all got the news. She might just be dramatizing this, but she </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>someone like Marianne and just can’t reach her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gets her phone out. Even if she can’t address Marianne, she can at the very least vent everything she’s feeling to her ghost. Marianne doesn’t have to see it. She doesn’t have to be disturbed. She doesn’t have to have her own grief compounded by dealing with Hilda’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Goddess in heaven, Hilda misses her, and this is the desperate act that makes Marianne feel closer to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hilda,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's unusual for me to address you via email, I know. Things being what they are with the family, I can't say this face-to-face; I wish I could. I also know that I couldn't make this a conversation; I wish I were braver, but I need a space without interruption to say what I need to. It's a good thing, I promise- I just need the space to say it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Marianne,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is madness. This whole goddamn everything is madness. It barely feels like I am in the same world as I was just a couple of months before. Which, okay, I doubt I’m alone in that. I know you’ve gotta be going through the same thing at least. I’m worried to death about you, honey. And don’t say anything about how I shouldn’t add you to my concerns; that’s not gonna be helped because I love you like you wouldn’t believe. I love you more than you know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wanted to tell you that I've suspected for a while that you've had romantic feelings for me. The way you've acted towards me has been more physical, more flirtatious, and more affectionate. It is… lovely, whatever it is. And maybe it's what I wanted all along. I'm sorry it took me this long to address that. I think a part of me always felt guilty for… well, who I am. The depression parts and gay parts alike. I didn't think I had the conviction to say that I deserved someone like you. I'm still not sure I do. But I wish to be yours if you'll have me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Other stuff does worry me. Business is basically nonexistent, and I'm just making stuff for friends though the cheapo parts I have look like shit together. Otherwise, I'm just garden variety depressed. I hear the news every day. I can’t avoid it. I don’t know what's gonna happen. The best we can hope for is two months. And I hear about how shit your region is handling it. Please tell me you're not sick. And please tell me your parents aren't being such shitheads.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I originally took some distance to try to work on myself, to try and get stronger, but all I can do here is think quietly; not too loud in case my parents hear, in case Saint Seiros hears, in case the Goddess hears. This is not a time where I can try and improve myself. This is not a time where either of us should be shy about needing each other. This is a cataclysm, an apocalypse. Do you know the origin of that word, </span>
  </em>
  <span>apocalypse? </span>
  <em>
    <span>It means to uncover, to reveal. And this apocalypse, I hope is indeed a revelation. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don't know why you're not talking that much. And frankly, if I try and figure it out I'll make myself paranoid as fuck so I haven't tried. I just hope it's for a good reason because I miss you a lot. Not only that, but I also need you. I have for ages. You talk about yourself like you're so negligible. Marianne, there's no one like you, and you help me get through the best and worst times. You're my most trusted companion and you make me a better Hilda.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can already see myself becoming a better person with your help, and here in your absence in the face of such unacceptance, I am getting worse. I've always wanted to help you in kind. Maybe I will, dear Hilda. Maybe- and I hope this is more than an indulgent thought- I already have. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don't know why I'm doing this. I'm not sending this to you. I just wanted to get my thoughts out. I love you very much, Marianne. I love you despite what others say. Despite what you might think.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I apologize that I've made you wait this long. Truly, I am. I can only offer myself in recompense. I hope that it's enough.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I just don't know how much longer I can wait until I break these walls down. Make something good happen for once in this timeline. Make it worth it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sincerely and hopefully yours, Marianne </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Love, Hilda</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>---</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne takes what feels like the first breath since she started writing. She looks to her door. No one seems like they're about to open it. Still, she's rushed in rereading it. When she finishes, she's urged to do it again as her message is at least moderately important, but a nagging voice in the back of her head tells her to just let it go, not to overthink, or she'll talk her way out of sending it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That side of her mind wins out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After she sends it, she hides under her blanket, her phone on her mattress next to her. She doesn't want to move until she gets an answer, but she doesn't feel emotionally ready for an answer. She kind of wants to run, but to where? To hide, but from what? To freeze, but what will she miss?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only option is to continue with business as usual until something happens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda looks at the draft. She didn't even realize she typed all of this into an email draft. She'd meant to use her notes app and just delete it after before she ever rereads it and embarrasses herself. It's like her subconscious was goading her to send it and damn what she thinks, she's certainly not about to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, how it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe there are parts that she can express. Maybe in a more casual or respectful way, she can express worry for Marianne. For herself. Maybe next time they talk, Hilda can at least drop hints that she's bone-chillingly smitten for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that doesn't address the fact that Hilda needs Marianne. That's the most pressing thing. Hilda needs Marianne. She needs to know what Marianne is thinking and she needs to make her case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she doesn't delete the draft, letting the raw ugliness of her honest thoughts rest in her inbox.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she backs out, her phone vibrates and she gets a message in her main inbox. Not in promotions, where some corporation can promise you they're doing the bare minimum in a self-congratulatory manner. No, it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>Marianne.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda squeaks. Marianne </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>emails her. She calls or messages. The only way she would email is if it was important. That sort of scares the hell out of Hilda, but Marianne sent it. That should be enough for Hilda to read it, for better or worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it's bad news, she can get a good cry out of it. Get the crippling depression started and hopefully over with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it's good news…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...well, who knows?</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I will tack on a short epilogue. After that, be on the lookout for a spinoff to this following Marianne and her journey in more detail. I am immensely proud of it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Marianne's therapist Mercedes is unable to meet on the day of her appointment. She says she's ill, not of the virus but of something different that she doesn't define. Marianne doesn't hold it against her whether or not it’s the truth; people are paranoid and it's not unbelievable that some fools would think that you could catch it through computer screens. Isn't the latest conspiracy theory that 5G networks are causing it? Foolishness, but not the type she can condemn Mercedes for playing by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She includes the therapist in her prayers. Just as she has started to include Bernadetta and Linhardt. She's occasionally prayed for Hilda's other friends and their partners. It's nice to include more people than Hilda, though she's always first. Maybe that's the part of religion she should try to retain; the part where she feels the Goddess' divine protection over all those she loves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, even though Mercedes cannot speak to her, she stuffs the computer in her book bag and tells her mother that she's going on her walk. If Mother wonders why her walks are scheduled at the same time every week, she doesn't say, waving Marianne a brusque goodbye from her rocking chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like that, Marianne is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She always takes precautions. She's covered in an unsurprisingly blue trenchcoat that reaches to her knees, black boots covering her legs. There's a mask on her face, hand sanitizer in her bag, and she makes sure to avoid people, though she would anyways. In fact, the path she takes is always the one most devoid of people that she can find. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She places in her earbuds. The music is an ambient cover of fictional worship music. She always liked the peace of ambiance; too bad worship music in the real world was about making a statement. Still, the whispers and coos of </span>
  <em>
    <span>bold and brave </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>keep us safe </span>
  </em>
  <span>could apply to the Goddess and not whoever this John fellow is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes the first steps off of the beaten path that she can afford.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The place she does her sessions in is in a nearby public park. It's more geared towards hikes than other parks, so it's largely forested while still being within a range where she can leech off of someone's WiFi, or use her phone if that isn't possible. She likes the walk as much as anything. It's difficult and rocky and she's paranoid that she's going to break the computer, but nature was always her refuge when things were at their worst. She loved the sights of nature- the sunsets, the animals, the colorful flowers, the way that occasionally snow would fall and she'd see the tracks of some critter freshly formed, the way the rivers ran with cool water that felt so lovely splashed into her face on summer days…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she believed, </span>
  <em>
    <span>a Goddess who made such amazing things didn't make a mistake with me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a feeling she feels alone in, but she can't let it go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gets about a half-mile into the park before she sees the creek so familiar to her. It's a few inches deep and three feet wide. She carefully wades through it- that's why she wore her boots. On the other side is a wall of trees- on their other side, a small meadow. When she was a kid, she would spend hours here, trying not to think, to be, to just enjoy. Until now, she's never told anyone about it, but going out to somewhere beautiful like this is a privilege, the last afforded to her as (to her appreciation, honestly) the local crackdown on people leaving their homes intensified to match the rest of the nation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She should share it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially with her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sits facing the meadow, wishing that Hilda was here in the flesh and blood. There's nowhere back in her new home that looks or feels quite like this. She wishes that she could match the beauty of the meadow with the beauty of Hilda, the beauty of their love, where not a single person would condemn them kissing under the goddess' providence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne will just have to settle for kisses between pale walls, by noisy cars, and under the arms of couches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She imagines it'll be just as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a deep breath, she reaches in her book bag for the hand sanitizer, applying it for longer than necessary. Then, she pulls out her laptop, unfolding it and waiting for it to turn on with a smile and thoughts she's happy to let wander.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When it's on, she goes directly to the messaging app. Quickly, she types </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm ready when you are.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, she points its camera at her face, trying to make sure it's focused on her. She takes her mask off and places it in a Ziploc bag. She sees her reflection in the small personal camera square and smiles weakly at it. Her smile has never been strong. Conventional wisdom says that it takes more effort to frown than smile, but Marianne knows that more than a turn of the mouth went into the effort to get this smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tinny ringing noise from the computer represents the video call notifying her of another presence. With a deep breath and a prayer too brief to be casual, she answers it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda looks at her from the other end on her and Dorothea's bed. Her pink twin tails curve around a black tank top that reaches to her waist and there are already tears in her candy-pink eyes. She's smiling wider than any time Marianne has ever seen her. Marianne has never felt more privileged and she remembers that this wouldn't be a thing at all had she not made the move that she did. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey love</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Hilda chokes, trying to play it casually. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hilda…</span>
  </em>
  <span> Marianne is a little too frazzled to think of even the slightest pet name. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You look beautiful.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda giggles in a way that suggests that she's about to start sobbing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, this? Aw, I've been a wreck lately. I had to make myself shower for this.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne can kind of see that, the familiar look of only minor and circumstantial care on her skin, the kind she recognized on herself during depressive spells. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I still think you're pretty</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she responds, because it's true and it's what Hilda would say to her even if she wasn't. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm seriously gonna cry, babe, like I'm not kidding.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I might too,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Marianne admits. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don't know when I was last this happy.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hilda covers her mouth, tears falling, and Marianne feels a deep lump in her chest begging for release. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My dear… it's so good to see you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You have no idea,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hilda breathes, the first sobs escaping her mouth, </span>
  <em>
    <span>how much I needed this.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I needed this too, Hilda.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda smiles shyly, shyer than she ever has in her life. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I, uh… how is everything, honestly? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne looks down. She knows whatever answer she has isn't a good one. It's been way too short a time since they've learned that it'll go a couple of months longer. It's been one month since she was away from Hilda, from Dorte, from </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything </span>
  </em>
  <span>not sickly sweet and falsely religious, and it feels like a year. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If I tell you, can you tell me too? Honestly?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda's face rankles as if thinking of something that she's never gonna tell a soul. Marianne's okay with that much; she can keep her secrets, as long as she's more honest about the important things.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, I can do that, Mari.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, then, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne breathes.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Um, I feel less bad about telling you that it's been really awful. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Damn it, love… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda sighs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That sucks. I'm sorry. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne looks up, fixing her back against the tree nearest her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How about you? Honestly?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh yeah. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda remembers. It takes her a second to, Marianne guesses, give herself the courage to admit </span>
  <em>
    <span>I've had a really bad time, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne nods. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, I had a feeling, honestly. This isn't a good time for anyone. Even and especially you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda nods. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, I mean… I know others have it worse. And I was hesitant to say anything to you because I'm definitely luckier than you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But it’s still not good, is it? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda looks down. Marianne so wishes that she could reach in, cradle Hilda’s chin, lift it up and tell her that everything was going to be okay. It’s the kind of thing that Hilda would do for her. It aches that she can’t do all of that, but maybe what Hilda needs isn’t what Marianne needs. Maybe she needs to be honest with her feelings. So Marianne says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hilda, it’s okay that it’s not fine. It really is. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she whispers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s hard… but better, now that I have you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne blushes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, you… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Leave it to Hilda to find the exact words needed to fluster Marianne, and to sound a hundred percent sincere while doing so. It took ages for Marianne to believe those sweet comments, then longer still to believe that there was more behind them. For such a sweet girl to say such sweet things in so sweet a manner for such sweet reasons… Marianne couldn’t comprehend that she deserved it. She still isn’t sure that she does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She just knows she has time to really learn how to accept that such praise was meant for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wish I was there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she whispers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I really do. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me too, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda whines. It’s really cute sometimes. Sometimes when Hilda whines over others asking her to do work or help them, Marianne cringes because it wouldn’t be so bad to get the job done herself, but when she whines over not getting to enjoy Marianne’s company… goodness, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t believe it’s real. </span>
  <em>
    <span>When this is all over, we’re cuddling. For, like, three days. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne giggles shyly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I would like that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Before thinking of anything else. Before figuring out what to do. And certainly while we’re still lethargic as all hell. I miss you so </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad, </span>
  <em>
    <span>babe. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne touches her heart. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Hilda… you don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear those words in such a way. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I mean it, honey. I’m gonna go nuts for two months just waiting for you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda looks near tears, Marianne notices, so she says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just, at the very least, cuddle extra hard with Dorothea, okay? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dorothea is such a nice woman. It was so lovely that she sang for them just as things were falling apart and so charming that she knew the song. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She deserves a little affection too. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She does, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda admits with a smile. Marianne is happy, and she certainly doesn’t mind sharing- at least, not right now. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She's thrilled, by the way. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She ducks, as if embarrassed, or even alarmed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit, uhm… yeah, I told Dora. She's… kind of been following along the… like, un-adventures of a pining queer, I guess. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne shakes her head with a fond smile. She doesn't like people who don't need to know her business knowing it, but she also knows that Hilda can't keep things inside. One unrelated person must know. And, hey, one could do worse than Dorothea, and not much better. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's Dorothea, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'll give you a pass for that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda says with a guilty laugh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I just… </span>
  </em>
  <span>She sighs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Marianne, you clocked me. I've felt this way about you for </span>
  </em>
  <span>ages. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And when this is all over… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We get back to life, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne offers. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I just don't know what that looks like, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda admits. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You gotta find a new place, we gotta get back to work, and… I really want to help Claude's group. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Golden Deer? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne would honestly rather talk about that than the daunting task of looking for a home. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah. Like, you know how they're all about helping income inequality? After this all blows over, like, people are gonna be broke and need help. But it's definitely not gonna come from the government; they were willing to sell us out! A lot of people are! So, like, we all need each other. Claude's been making himself sick over it and, like, I can't imagine just going back to make jewelry while the world tries to fix itself around me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne blushes. Hilda has always been an animated girl. That's how she was. When she got like this before, admittedly it would nerve her out, but now she loves the thrill, as much as she loves when Hilda gets so invested in what she's talking about. Gods, it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>torture </span>
  </em>
  <span>not to be able to take Hilda into her arms. She would never care what her parents thought of her again if she could hold onto Hilda for strength. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So… what are you going to do, Hilda?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda throws her hands up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don't know what I'll be good for, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she admits. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But I just want to be there to help. For them… and for you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marianne points at herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah. Like… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hilda's voice drops to a tender mumble.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I can't stop thinking about you, babe. Which, like, duh, right? But… I know what brought you to me. I know how we got in the position to meet. And something that awful… brought me something so good, and I'm still not sure how I feel about that. But I want to pay it back, both to you and everyone else. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne closes her eyes. She bears the permanent scars of a thousand sordid memories, but how kind, she finds, that Hilda wants nothing more than to patch them up. To give Marianne more good days than bad days.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hilda, you are </span>
  </em>
  <span>amazing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilda blushes bright red. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm only as amazing as you deserve. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Really? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Doubt creeps into her voice. It's a habit. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah! Like… you know you deserve it, right? That you deserve to be happy? You believe it, right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though they haven't said the three words yet, Marianne can already tell that Hilda means them. That maybe when they exchanged those words as friends, she had meant them all along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marianne probably did as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not sure yet, but I’m starting to. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the world crashing down around them, she believes that it is possible for things to get better. For her life to get better. That this apocalypse can indeed be the revelation that she always needed.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Above all else, this was a therapeutic project. To make myself okay with... well, a lot. As my first foray into 3H fics I think it went over really well. Marianne is love and life and I look forward to my spin-off with her.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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